


World Unfolding

by Imnotahero



Series: Doors Unlocked series [2]
Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate season 5b, Blood, Blood and Injury, But mainly Stiles POV, Depression, Don't want to spoil too much, Eichen | Echo House, Established Relationship, Explicit Sexual Content, Grief/Mourning, Lydia Martin & Stiles Stilinski Friendship, M/M, Magical Stiles Stilinski, Mystery, Nemeton, Not tagging everything, POV Alternating, Picks up a few weeks later, Sequel to Doors Unlocked and Open, Spark Stiles Stilinski, Stiles-centric, Strained Friendships, magical burns, sterek, stiles is something, this is a continuation of that
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-11-18
Updated: 2017-01-18
Packaged: 2018-09-01 14:17:19
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 22
Words: 133,374
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8627776
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Imnotahero/pseuds/Imnotahero
Summary: The Nemeton is closed, the Dread Doctors long gone and Stiles and Derek's relationship is shiny, new and exciting. On the surface everything seems great. Underneath however, something is brewing, and not just deep in the Preserve. Can Stiles get a handle on it while juggling his love life, school work, frustrating magic lessons with Morrell and a best friend who's downward-spiraling fast?





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This is a sequel to Doors Unlocked and Open. If you haven't read that one yet, I recommend you start there. This story picks up a few weeks after the events of that one. This series is canon compliant through season 5A. Doors Unlocked and Open serves as an alternate 5B story, while this in turn builds on that. 
> 
> Stiles and Derek are now in an established relationship and some more explicit content may occur. I will leave a notice at the beginning of chapters with NSFW content, so those who wants to, can skip it. 
> 
> This story is complete and I will be posting between one and three chapters a week. It's unbetaed which means all mistakes, plot holes, cases of terrible grammar, and horrid punctuation are mine and mine alone (and now shared with you).

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter has explicit sexual content in the first half.

The first thing he noticed was the light.

Persistent rays of bright sunlight filtered through the somewhat faded, and decidedly threadbare drop-down curtains. Stiles had been meaning to replace it for years, but between endless streams of homework and an increasing amount of supernatural shit to deal with, he simply hadn’t found the time. Or so he kept telling himself.

Postponing the task of replacing the curtains was something he partially regretted every morning, had entirely forgotten by breakfast, and chastised himself for by bedtime. It was a pattern comfortable in its familiarity and cruel in its torturous wake up method. This loop had been performed for years. Still, the curtains remained the same.

Having a room facing east meant it became drenched in piercing sunlight much too early for Stiles’ tastes. Still, something held him back. Made him procrastinate the task like dreaded homework, and  conveniently forget to ask his dad to pick out a new one. With time, Stiles had realized this reluctance tied back to his mother. The soft blue color suggested she’d picked it out. His dad was many things, but aesthetics had never been a priority of his. In Stiles’ head, she’d even hung them herself. Taking them down felt like removing yet another part of her, and he just wasn’t ready for that.

Much like the curtains, his memories of her were washed out, faded, and threadbare. Stiles fought daily to hang on to the happy moments, remembering her soft voice, her loving hugs and to not dwell on the days, weeks; months spent watching her wither away in a hospital bed. The good memories still filtered through, thank god, just like the sunlight. Strange as it was, he was terrified of losing that. That he'd wake one day, engulfed in darkness, her lingering presence gone.

_My little ray of sunlight._

That’s what his mom had called him. Now she was the sunlight; the stubborn rays fighting through to wake him every morning. Most teenage boys would probably grunt and turn around, maybe even bury deeper under the covers. Stiles Stilinski was not like most teenage boys, in many ways, this being just one of them. Like a content cat, he preened, even stretched lazily to soak up even more of the warm light illuminating his body.

A soft click brought him out of his private little moment. Another followed. Scrunching up his nose in annoyance, he glanced over his shoulder, hair undoubtedly sticking out in all directions.

_Click._

He should’ve known.

“Fuck, Derek, what’cha doing?” he murmured sleepily. His answer was another click and a soft chuckle.

“I’m taking advantage of the incredible light and the even better subject. Now shush, and arch that back a bit more, show off that ass for me.”

“I’m too tired for this shit,” mumbled Stiles, letting his head fall back onto the pillow with a grunt. Derek continued snapping photos like a man obsessed.

“Why are you even awake? What time is it?”

Stiles was whining and didn’t even care.

“I’m awake because you snore,” said Derek simply. Another god damned click. Not for the first time, Stiles seriously regretted letting Derek have free reign over the camera that had been sitting gathering dust in his closet for close to two years.

“Lies,” exclaimed Stiles, throwing his hand up in a failed attempt to swat the camera away. “You have no proof. _Snore_? Me? Hearsay!”

Derek didn’t answer right away. Stiles almost drifted back into a half slumber, vaguely registering Derek fiddling with something out of the corner of his eye. He’d stopped taking pictures at any rate which was good. Stiles did not feel particularly photogenic at ass o’clock in the morning. Or ever, for that matter.

The peaceful morning bliss ended abruptly when Derek shoved his phone to Stiles’ ear, a horrible screeching sound assaulting his eardrums.

“What the fuck, dude?”

He flailed around, getting horribly tangled in the beddings in the process. Derek snorted in ill-concealed amusement.

“ _That_ ,” said Derek with an air of triumph “is you, snoring. _Loudly_. Last night.”

“I liked you better when you were grumpy and not so tech savvy,” complained Stiles, turning around with much huffing.

“Now _that_ is a lie,” said Derek and fuck, there was that dreaded camera again! Stiles grimaced and flipped his finger. Derek caught that image too for posterity, the bastard. It would probably be on Instagram by noon, softened by a vintage filter. Derek had an affinity for those, like some closeted hipster. All he lacked was a beanie and some black-rimmed glasses. For some reason that mental image was not at all repulsive.

“I hate your werewolf lie detector powers so much. By the way, mister, you’re supposed to ask for permission before taking photos, man. I don’t remember giving my consent to whatever it was you were doing just now. I’m not ready for my close-up at this hour. So what’s the deal, paparazzi-wolf?”

“I’m capturing art.”

Stiles squinted up at Derek’s stubbly face, a disbelieving eyebrow arched high. If anything was art adjacent, it was Derek Hale! Certainly not Stiles’ pimply and pasty ass. Most days he still couldn’t fathom this chiseled Adonis was his boyfriend.

“So, you were taking selfies?” he asked innocently.

Derek rolled his eyes. “Very funny, Stiles. You know my favorite subject is you. And your butt. Which was the art in question. Your ass is very arty.”

Stiles arched an eyebrow. “Arty? My ass is _arty_?”

Derek nodded solemnly, setting the camera carefully on the nightstand. “Oh yes, in fact I think I need to inspect it further, you know for science. It’s a prime asset.” He waggled his eyebrows. “See what I did there? I made a pun. _Ass_ -et. Get it? Your terrible jokes are rubbing off on me.”

“If that’s all that’s rubbing off on you, I’m clearly doing something wrong,” muttered Stiles, hands seeking out Derek’s shapely thighs. He was only wearing boxers, thus massively overdressed for what Stiles had in mind. If Derek noticed Stiles’ exploratory hands, he didn’t let on. In fact, he was still blathering on about - Stiles honestly didn’t know.

“I will need to examine it closely to determine its proper value.” 

“What are you babbling about?” asked Stiles, voice getting breathless. He was sporting morning wood so hard it could cut diamonds, and was not in the mood for long diatribes. His fingers found the top of Derek’s boxers and he teased one slender digit under the hem. Derek’s breath hitched slightly.

“This,” whispered Derek, leaning over and snaking a hand underneath Stiles, firmly cupping one of his butt cheeks. “I’m talking about your sinfully perfect ass, Stiles. I’d write sonnets about it if I could.” He licked a wet trail up Stiles’ neck, sucking lightly behind his ear. Stiles moaned throatily.

“Quiet.” Derek moved his ministrations to his ear, his whisper sultry. “We don’t want to wake your dad. I’m not supposed to be here, remember?”  
“Then you better gag me, or leave. If you keep that shit up, I’m not guaranteeing silence, okay.”  
“Gags could be arranged.”

Sometimes Stiles honestly detested werewolf powers. Especially the exceptional hearing, which meant that lies and creative half-truths were more or less impossible. Other times he loved it with the intensity of several blazing suns. Like right now, when Derek flipped him over easily, pushing his face gently into the plump pillow. Very high on his love-o-meter.

“You better bite down on that pillow real good,” threatened Derek playfully. Stiles arched his back in anticipation, knowing perfectly well it pushed his arty ass even more sinfully up in the air. They hadn’t been together that long, but he’d learned early on that exposing his backside tended to distract Derek in the best of ways.

“Are you going to keep talking?” Stiles asked breathlessly. “If so, you’re the one who’ll wake up my dad. I was under the misguided assumption you were going to inspect my ass. Or am I getting sonnets instead? I didn’t think you the wordy type, wolfy. Should I expect serenades in iambic pentameter?”

“Didn’t I tell you to bite down on that pillow?” Derek was drawing something on Stiles’ back with a ghosting finger. He might be mapping out constellations on his moles or spelling out dirty words, Stiles didn’t care. Whatever it was, it caused his body squirm and gyrate, pushing his pelvis and aching member into the mattress with what he suspected bordered on filthy porn moves.

“Oh yeah,” muttered Derek, voice becoming low and throaty, a sure sign that intense pleasure was about to come Stiles Stilinski’s way. “Holy shit, Stiles.”  
“Is that my sonnet?” teased Stiles, arching even more. “It’s not very Shakespearean in its build and structure.”  
“I’m gonna sonnet your ass with my mouth,” drawled Derek.

Stiles half groaned, half laughed. Derek was very cheesy when he was horny, sometimes to the point of hilarity.  
“That doesn’t even make a lick of – oh! Oh MY GO-!”

Stiles had to give him credit. Derek was an excellent multitasker who managed to bite onto Stiles’ left butt cheek just as he pushed Stiles’ face down into the pillow. Which was a very good thing; otherwise, the Stilinski household would’ve been rudely awakened by a long series of escalating moans. Derek Hale was very skilled with his mouth, and his tongue in particular.

“Can I trust you to keep your head down?” he murmured half threateningly. Stiles nodded so hard it probably looked like he was having a seizure. Which he kind of was. A seizure brought on by waves of intense pleasure.

“Good,” said Derek approvingly. The hand holding Stiles’ head traveled south, taking its time down his back, before it finally arrived where Stiles wanted it most. His ass.  
“So impatient. So eager,” murmured Derek, massaging, or better yet kneading both cheeks with reverence. Stiles answered by arching off the bed, a clear invitation if there ever was one. Even if he couldn’t see it, he knew Derek was smirking. He wanted to wipe that smirk of his face. Preferably using his ass as a napkin. Derek seemed to be reading his mind, and thankfully totally on board with said notion.

Derek parted his cheeks and Stiles instinctively hunched his knees further up, lifting his butt in the air for better access. He didn’t even care if it made him seem slutty and needy. He knew Derek loved this part, loved eating him out, teasing him and making him come, just like this. For his part, Stiles absolutely loved to blow Derek. Sometimes quick and dirty, other times slow, teasing, milking him for what felt like hours, watching and feeling him slowly unravel.

Derek licked a broad stripe across his hole, and then ran his finger almost religiously over it. Lightly, just ghosting the rim. Then another lick, the tongue just gently probing but not breaching. God, he was good at that. Stiles was more or less humping the bed already, pre-cum undoubtedly smeared all over his sheets – again.

“So beautiful,” whispered Derek. His breath made Stiles bite into the pillow muttering expletives under his breath. Derek Hale and his sinful mouth would be the death of him. Especially if – oh GOD YES! There it was. Rimming was the best! And Derek was fucking phenomenal at it.

“Lie still,” commanded Derek, his voice muffled by Stiles’ butt cheeks and his unwillingness to stop working his mouth over his oversensitive hole.

“Not possible,” whined Stiles. As it turned out, the pillow provided limited soundproofing abilities. They should probably look into gags, real ones. The thought only furthered Stiles erection. He was kinky. Possibly even kinkier than he’d suspected. Thankfully, Derek seemed to like it. Who was he kidding? Derek _loved_ it.

Stiles lost his train of thought after that. Not surprising, considering Derek had just added a finger. Stiles squirmed, kicked the wall and bit down on his own hand to avoid screaming. Sadly, his hand was even worse at muffling sounds than the pillow. He was unraveling and incapable of doing it quietly. Not that he cared much at this point.

“Jesus fucking Christ,” he wheezed, shoving his ass further up into Derek’s face, feeling the stubble grind at his skin. He was up to two fingers now and YES, he’d found the sweet spot!

_“Stiles? Son, are you up yet?”_

Was there someone outside his door. Possibly? Stiles didn’t care.

_“Stiles?_

Was that knocking? Or simply the sound of Stiles’ heartbeat pounding in his ears?

_“STILES! What in the blazes are you up to? Did you stub your toe again? It sounds as if a herd of vision-impaired kangaroos are attempting to pole vault through the roof. Please tell me you’re not doing magic. We’ve talked about this, no magic until after school, and Morrell said –.”_

The door rattled again.

_“Stiles, why is your door locked?”_

There was more knocking, Stiles vaguely noticed. His entire world was being rocked – what was a measly door compared to that?

 _“I’m sick of all these locked doors,”_ the sheriff chided. _“The drawback of having a magical son – you never know when you’ll be locked in – or out.”_

There was a scarping sound, some muttered curses, and suddenly his dad’s voice was frighteningly closer and clearer. The reason soon became apparent.

“I don’t care if you’re having a personal moment, sonny. It’s time to get up. You can’t miss more school – OH MY GOD!”

“Dad? What the fuck???!!”

Stiles emerged from the covers in time to see the back of his dad’s very red neck disappear out the door accompanied by distressed whimpers.

“Bleach! I need bleach, right now! So much bleach!”

“Oh god, fuck! Dude, this is bad. Derek! Derek? Shit.”

Stiles fell out of the bed in a tangle of limbs. Groggily he got to his feet, and stumbled towards the door, hoping to catch his dad before he got hold of some serious chemicals.

“Boxers!” hissed Derek between clenched teeth. Stiles stopped and stared at him not understanding. Out in the hallway his dad was already rummaging through the linen closet, probably looking for something to gorge out his eyes with.

“Huh?”

Derek gestured wildly in the direction of Stiles’ genital area. He glanced down, and hello! Little Stiles was still at half mast and out and about without cover. He should probably do something about that. Twirling around like a very ungraceful ballerina, he couldn’t find anything even vaguely fitting to cover up with. Derek solved his problem by lobbing his long discarded pajamas bottoms at his head. He was halfway dressed already. Wolf speed was another thing Stiles sometimes disliked. Or envied. Mostly the latter.

“I’ll just –.” Derek gestured towards the window. Stiles nodded fervently. That was probably a good idea all around. An unnecessary somersault later and Derek was gone, leaving Stiles alone to deal with a clearly traumatized sheriff.

Stiles found his dad standing awkwardly in the hallway holding a duster in one hand and a can of air freshener in the other.

“Dad?” he probed, advancing slowly much like a stealthy hunter not wanting to scare of its prey with sudden movement. It was a futile endeavor. His dad twirled around holding the duster aloft like a light saber, ready to pounce.

“Jesus, dad! You could poke someone’s eye out with that. You okay? Sorry about that, by the way. Probably not the wake-up call you wanted, huh?”

His dad raised his head slowly, his facial expression pained and incredulous. “You think?” he asked, his voice oozing sarcasm. Stiles was impressed. Personally, he seldom reached that level of sarcasm before noon. It took a bit of warming up, to be honest. Having douche teachers like Harris tended to speed up the process. Still, he rarely managed anything above a level 3 before breakfast. This was a level 6 at least. His dad was good.

“Once again, I’m sorry. Oh lord, no need for that!” Stiles shook his head. His dad had clasped his hands over his ears and was humming loudly. Stiles waited impatiently for him to stop.  
“I locked the door, though,” he added loudly. “Privacy and all that jazz. Respect the lock, man.”

The sheriff clearly did not appreciate the accompanying jazz hands. Stiles let them drop immediately, crossing them defensively over his chest instead.  
“I thought we’d learned from the unfortunate incident of ’08 to respect closed and locked doors, to carefully knock and not enter until clearly invited. You breaking and entering was a direct violation of that.”

His dad had come up with that rule. He should’ve known better than to go against it. He’d brought this on himself, basically. So yeah, no need to get all high and mighty about it. Right?  
Wrong.

“That rule is superseded by the new rule we made only days ago, dear son of mine. You keep locking doors left and right with that mind of yours. I’ve been locked out and locked in more times than I can count. Three hours in the bathroom, Stiles! _Three!_ Which is why I’ve taken to carrying around keys to every door in this house. I thought you’d accidentally locked your door again. Morrell told me your powers would be a bit frizzy for a while, now that you’re working on fully controlling them.”

He waved the can of air freshener around, taking the time to squeeze out large amounts of citrus fragrance. Stiles coughed as it hit his nostrils.

“It smells like cum and dick, even out here,” grumbled the sheriff, face stony. “Before you say anything, please remember that I have no problem with your relationship with Derek, as you well know. However, I did stipulate very clearly no sleepovers on weekdays, and no sleepovers in this house. I’m up for re-election in two months, Stiles. I know you’re 18 now, but it’s only been a few months, and Derek has been hanging around you for a long time. People might talk, and I’d hate for you to be dragged into that. So keep it in your pants, at least around our house. Capiche?”

“Sure,” mumbled Stiles, face red. It had just dawned on him what exactly his dad had walked in on and – suffice to say, Little Stiles was now completely flaccid, thank you very much.

“Also I’m sorry – about the doors and stuff. I’m really working on it.”

His dad’s face softened. “I know, son. You’ll get there. In the meantime, please shower. Then get your butt – oh god, butt!” He shook his head and rubbed his eyes, as if reliving painful memories. “Poor choice of words, so very poor. I might need therapy before I’m retired, and not because of anything police related.” He sighed deeply. “Just get to school, okay.”

“Okay,” promised Stiles, complete with a silly salute. His dad rolled his eyes and disappeared down the stairs. Stiles noticed he was still armed with the duster and the air freshener, like he expected random attacks of cum, dicks and R-rated displays to attack him around the house. He supposed he should be thankful it wasn't wolfsbane bullets.

Shuffling back into his room, heading for the shower Stiles had to admit his dad was right. The room definitely smelled like dick and cum. The scent had a decidedly different effect on him than his father. Inside his pajama bottoms, Little Stiles twitched eagerly in that way you just couldn't ignore if you wanted a productive school day. Stiles opened the windows wide, airing out his bedroom. The same could not be said for the bathroom. 

 

 

*** * ***

 

  
“Have you talked to Scott lately?”

Kira was twirling her pencil nervously, sometimes stopping to tap out an erratic rhythm against the still unopened Calculus book. She’d been at it for close to an hour. At first Stiles hadn’t thought much of it. After all, he was prone to odd twitches himself, so it took him a while to realize this wasn’t par for the course for Kira. The fact that she had been ignoring her homework for the past hour was another clue that something wasn’t quite right.

“I talked to him this morning,” offered Stiles pleasantly, knowing perfectly well that was not what Kira meant. He was a master at dodging unpleasant subjects, especially those that might verve onto the minefield that was feelings. Most notably his own.

“He bestowed upon me his dazzling morning wit and joy. And by that I mean none at all. No wit. No joy. Just sullen silence.”

"Oh." Kira's face fell. Yeah, Stiles was doing a bang up job dragging her down further. 

Stiles sagged back into the chair. _Scott_. That was a minefield if there ever was one, and he would like nothing but to backtrack, retreat and not engage where that subject was concerned. Yet, he’d learned the hard way that the Stiles Stilinski patented way of ignoring things until they went away didn’t apply to kinks in relationships and friendships. They'd hit a rough patch after the whole confrontation about Donovan. After a period of mostly radio silence and sulking on both parts, piece talks had been negotiated. They had promised to talk. Really talk. That was weeks ago, though. The talk had been tabled for now. Stiles hadn't wanted to push. It hadn't seemed right. Not when Scott was still reeling after everything with the Beast. 

“He was just not in a talkative mood,” he clarified, going for a neutral half-truth. Kira pierced him with a surprisingly impatient glower. Stiles vaguely wondered if Lydia was giving her private lessons.  
“Okay, so the guy was like a walking sack of gloom.” He glanced at Kira, giving her a weak smile. “I think he pulled another late night at Deaton’s. That temporary vet is riding him pretty hard from what I’ve gathered.”

Kira shrugged. She was doodling in the margins of her notebook. She was kind of good, actually. It looked like a cross between Thor and some sort of alien. Or Thor battling an alien. Stiles didn’t really care. If it wasn’t Spiderman it wasn’t really important. He was secretively still kind of bummed about the lack of spider web shooting out of his hands. Not that he’d tried or anything. Not much anyway.

“I guess,” she mumbled. “The temp is pretty demanding, but I don’t think he was working yesterday. It’s just, he doesn’t really talk to me anymore. If I don’t call him, he doesn’t call me. And when I go over there, he’s friendly and all, but he zones out more often than not. I’m starting to wonder if he wants me there at all.” She grabbed Stiles’ hand, forcing him to look at her. “Has he said anything to you?”

Stiles shook his head vehemently. If he’d had any screws loose, they would’ve rattled. Thankfully, he heard nothing. His fringe was getting long and floppy, though. When had that happened? He broke off with difficulty from his warped inner monologue to focus on Kira who was now regarding him with the same confused look Malia usually got when confronted with two-variable linear equations.

“Nope,” he said, then shrugged and squirmed when Kira continued to look at him all doe-eyed and sad. “Not really. We’ve not really worked our way back to sharing feelings and stuff yet. Not that we really did that in the first place. Not at all actually. We just, you know, over-shared on the fun details, like sex stuff – not about you though, “ he added hastily when Kira turned white as a sheet. It didn’t help much. You could argue it didn’t help at all. Made the situation worse even. Derek had been right. They should definitely look into those gags.

“Oh,” she mumbled, almost shrinking into her chair. “So, just about _her,_ then.”

It took Stiles perhaps three seconds to realize the scope of his blunder, and when he did, he wanted to kick himself. Repeatedly.

“That’s not – I didn’t mean, uh, shit, what I’m trying to say is that – .“

What exactly was he trying to say? What could he say?  He settled for “I’m sorry.” It wasn’t much, but at least it was heartfelt. “I really mean it,” he added, feeling his face radiating heat. God, he was suck a blunt fucker sometimes. Most of the time he did it on purpose, but this time he’d stepped in it totally and fully without intending to and he felt terrible about it.

“I know,” said Kira with a sad smile. “I was never really jealous of her, you know. I knew exactly what I was getting myself into when I started hanging around you guys. Lydia pulled me aside and gave me the lay of the land early on. I always appreciated that. I knew Scott would always love Allison, and when she died he took it hard. I gave him all the time he needed to grieve. I offered him space, hoping that when he came back, he’d put that part behind and was ready to move on. None of us expected this outcome. I understand that seeing her again, even if it wasn’t the real her, threw him for a loop. I’d think he was crazy if it didn’t affect him. But it’s been almost three weeks, Stiles, and it feels as if he’s retreating further and further into some sort of invisible shell, and I have no idea what to do.”

Her eyes bore into his, breaking his heart. Silent tears made their ways down her cheeks, the desperation raw on her face. “What do I do, Stiles?” she asked voice barely more than a whisper.

Stiles was at a complete loss. What could he do? How well did he really know Scott these days? They’d been drifting apart since that fatal day in the woods when Scott was bitten. Like a volcano, their issues had built and simmered under the surface, erupting into a full on split, a schism even. They had only just managed to build a lackluster and anything but sturdy suspension bridge when all hell had broken loose. Again.

In the aftermath, Stiles hadn’t really prioritized Scott. He’d been more than busy getting acquainted with his role with the Nemeton, exploring his relationship with Derek and being put through the ringer by Morrell. 

Wait a minute...

Suddenly a string of light bulbs started to flicker erratically in his mind. A moment later a devastating realization was lit ablaze like a supernova.

Holy. Crap.

Stiles wanted to brain himself on his history book. In fact, he _did_ brain himself on the history book, causing Kira to wheeze out a worried “ _Stiles!_ ” 

He was such an idiot! The truth was he’d been a crappy friend. The exact same thing he’d accused Scott of being after his world changed so abruptly a few years back. In fact, the pattern was identical. Newfound supernatural ability - check. New love interest - check. New mentor - check.

The realization hit hard, making his stomach churn. How could he’d been so blind? So ignorant?

“I’ll talk to him.”

What else could he do?

“Really?”

A sliver of hope spread across Kira’s face, her mouth curling in the smallest of smiles. He nodded, not trusting his voice. They worked on in silence, and yet Stiles’ ears rang with the overwhelming and deafening echoes of his own hypocrisy.

 

*** * ***

 

“I’m the worst friend ever!”

Stiles had, in true drama queen fashion, burst into the house and draped himself over the nearest available piece of furniture, complete with sighs and woes. It was all very Gone With The Wind. Lydia didn’t bother taking her nose of the book she was perusing, as if this was an everyday event that didn’t warrant her attention. She was still living at the Stilinski house, unwilling to make her mother complicit in the legal case she’d filed both against her father and Eichen House in case it wouldn’t go her way. Stiles for his part had no doubt she’d win on both accounts. Lydia Martin was simply not the sort who lost.

“Don’t be an idiot, Stiles."

“I’ve copied all of Scott’s bad friend traits, Lydia! All of them! I should know better!”

Lydia huffed, pushed her hair back and awarded him with one of her patented glowers. Stiles was immune by now. Mostly.

“And you _do_ know better,” she retorted primly. “Which is why you realized this after just three weeks. It took years and an epic falling out for Scott to even see the contours of the problem, much less acknowledge it and do something about it.” She huffed, and flipped another page. “He needed an anvil to the head, you figured it out yourself. I’d say you’re doing pretty good all things considered. And – “ she added, raising a finger to silence his burgeoning protests – “who could honestly blame you. Derek is, despite his somewhat gloomy disposition, quite the hottie. Frankly, I’d be disappointed in you if you didn’t go temporarily stupid after hooking up with him.”

“Oh my god, you make it sound like some sort of sordid affair,” complained Stiles with the air of an offended Southern Belle. Lydia snorted.

“It _IS_ a sordid affair. Sometimes I think you forget that I live here as well. Given my current situation, I seldom leave the house, unlike your dad. These walls, buddy,” she said waving a finger in the air, " _paper thin.”_

“Oh my god!”

Stiles buried his face under a pillow, feeling mortified.

“That is a very common phrase I hear from your room, yes,” commented Lydia dryly , a note of amusement to her voice.  
“Someone kill me now,” Stiles pleaded weakly. “You could’ve subtly warned me, like weeks ago!”  
“Stiles, honey.” Lydia’s voice dripped with honey-like smoothness. “I don’t do subtle. Besides, you make it sound as if it bothers me.”

Stiles flailed, lost his balance and fell to the floor in a tangle of limbs and ounces of embarrassment. What the actual fuck? Did Lydia just - ? Words failed him. That seemed to be a common occurrence around her. She regularly blew his mind. However, this borderline voyeuristic side to her, this he wasn’t touching even with a ten feet pole. Which spoke volumes of his own evolution. Only a few years back anything remotely sexual combined with Lydia Martin, frequently reduced him to nothing but hormones and drool. Now it had him longing for bleach and memory wipes. Where were those Men In Black with their handy memory wiper when you needed them?

“You need to get out of the house more,” he concluded with an involuntary shudder, worming his way back onto the couch, cheeks splotchy. Lydia waved her perfectly manicured hand over the mountain of legal documents in front of her.

“Working on it, as you can see. Now, either help me or feed me. Your dad’s shift is over soon, he’ll be expecting dinner.”  
“And you can’t pick up a pan for once and whip something up, I guess?”

Stiles knew the answer. Lydia was awesome, brilliant and he loved her dearly. She was also spoiled rotten and did not do good work in the kitchen, a fact Stiles privately thought she was proud of in her own warped sort of way.

“I can _pick up_ the pan, I however do not enjoy putting anything in it,” she replied smartly. “I was also under the impression neither of you much liked the result when I did.”

Stiles winced at the thought. That had been a disaster all around, from the smell to the taste. Sadly, neither he nor his dad had managed to identify what dish she’d attempted to cook, which apparently was an even worse crime. The less said about that the better.

“Forget I said anything,” he added hastily, getting begrudgingly to his feet.  
“Forget what?” asked Lydia sweetly. Stiles answered by flicking her ear.  
“Better make something good,” she suggested innocently. “Your dad was in quite the state at breakfast this morning. I hid the bleach, by the way. You can thank me by bringing me some fresh coffee.”  
“Don’t remind me,” ground Stiles, yanking open the refrigerator and inspecting the contents with disdain. “And get your own damned coffee; I have a meal to prepare.”

After some rummaging, he located some chicken fillets, carrots and mushrooms. He supposed he could make something of that that would put a smile on his dad’s face. The events of this morning definitely needed to be glossed over, and food was always a surefire way to start. A few moments later Lydia padded into the kitchen, nodded appreciatively at the ingredients he’d pulled out, before pouring herself some coffee without complaint.

“Are you going over to Derek’s later?”

Stiles shrugged. He wanted to, but he’d had to wait and feel out the climate of his dad’s mood first.

“I might. Do you want to come?”

If Lydia came along surely his dad wouldn’t protest. As much. It would put a serious damper on the sexy times, but his recent revelation of how bad a friend he was in the process of becoming had put some perspective on things. Besides, he enjoyed Derek’s company regardless, and he wanted his friends to like him too.

“Thank you for the invite,” said Lydia, eyebrows waggling, making Stiles groan and almost sever a finger in embarrassed distress. “I’ll pass though. I’m still hesitant to leave the house, in case my father has his henchmen lurking in the bushes ready to readmit me. Besides, Kira is coming over.”

“Oh, cool.”

It was. Kira needed a friend. “No Parrish?” he ventured mock-innocently. This time it was his turn to arch an eyebrow. Lydia simply shook her head, blowing daintily on her hot beverage.

“Weird,” he teased. “I thought he’d be here every chance, courting you. That is one smitten deputy.”  
Lydia laughed. “Really? _Courting_? Have you wandered down a time corridor again lately? No one courts these days.”

“I don’t know,” said Stiles with a shrug. “Parrish seems like the kind of guy that would. Kind of old school. Not surprising perhaps, considering he’s actually old. Hellhounds and kitsunes basically live forever or whatnot. Anyway, my point is the guy looks at you like you hung the moon.”  
“I know,” she answered, face straight. There was something sad to her eyes, though. Stiles felt confused.  
“What’s the matter? I thought you liked Parrish?”  
“I do.”  
“Then what’s the problem?”

Lydia sighed deeply, but not in the condescending manner she normally adopted when she thought the answer should be obvious.

“I don’t really know how to explain it without sounding horrible,” she began. “I do like him. I think he’s hot like burning. Literally and figuratively.”  
“He is,” confirmed Stiles, instantly feeling his ears turn red. Admitting male attractiveness aloud was still a new concept. One that his body hadn’t quite adapted to yet.

“Your taste in men is miles better than your fashion sense,” commented Lydia with a smile. Stiles huffed.  
“Don’t mock the plaid! The plaid is a classic. You can’t go wrong with plaid.”  
“You’re walking proof to the contrary.”  
Stiles gasped, and waved a spatula threateningly in her direction. “No chicken for you!” he bellowed theatrically.

“Anyway,” said Lydia ignoring his outburst. “I’m sure we can revisit the abysmal state of your closet later. What I was trying to say is that I could easily fall for him. To a certain extent, I probably already have. But, I’ve been around the block a few times already. I know what I like. I also know what I _need_. As much as I like Jordan, I don’t need him. Not like he needs me.”

For a moment, the only sound was the ticking of the clock and the sound of the knife slicing carrots. Stiles’ mind was reeling, trying to process what Lydia was saying.

“So, basically you and Parrish as a couple would be imbalanced, is that what you’re trying to say?”

Lydia nodded. “That sounds horrid, I know it does. I make it sound like I’m more complicated or better than him, but that’s not it. It’s more like he’s too good for me. Do you remember Jackson and me?”

“Vividly,” remarked Stiles with an eye roll. “High drama all week, double the fun on weekends. You treated each other like crap.”

Lydia smiled wistfully. “I get how it looked from the outside. We did argue a lot. But that was what made us work. Jackson challenged me. He didn’t just bend over or accommodate my every whim. I had to work for it as well. Jordan on the other hand is the kind of guy that would do everything in his power to make sure I was happy, and that would be glorious for a while. Then I’d get bored. I’d start to provoke and prod just to get a reaction, to get a challenge. Can you honestly see Jordan being the kind of guy that could provide that for me? Who would butt heads and stand his ground when I’m being a bitchy cow?”

Stiles shook his head. Parrish was a Gentleman through and through. Something else also clicked into place in his head.

“That’s why we’d never work either, isn’t it? At least not the old me. I worshiped the ground you walked on.”  
“I know,” said Lydia patting his head. “You were adorable. Annoying as hell, but also flattering in a nerdy and needy kind of way. I know I pretended like you were air and that I didn’t know who you were, mainly to test if you had that willingness to push back.”

“I was never like Jackson; it makes sense that it was a fruitless project.”  
“Don’t sell yourself short,” said Lydia, smiling slyly. “You finally cracked and fought me back, remember. At the dance.”  
“Yeah, fat lot of good that did.”  
“It did actually. I knew then that I’d found an equal. My heart was still with Jackson. In a way, I think it still is. Yet, from that moment, I knew that you were someone I’d be fortunate to have in my life. Someone that could keep up with me.”

Lydia put down her cup, bit her bottom lip and approached him with a sincerity and openness Stiles suspected few people were privy to. Next, she snaked her arms around his midriff, resting her chin on his chest.

“You’re my best friend, Stiles,” she murmured into his slightly faded t-shirt. Her breath warmed his skin. Her words warmed his soul.

It was an odd feeling, realizing how much could change in just a few years. If someone had told sophomore Stiles that the girl he’d been obsessing over since the third grade, would end up his best friend in the world, he’d never believe it. Scott was his best friend. Had been for years. Yet, Scott wasn’t his best friend now. He wanted them to be good friends again; he would work his ass off to achieve that. Best friend status however, that had, at least for the time being, shifted to a brainy and petite girl with killer heels and a tendency to sniff out death.

“You’re my best friend too, Lydia.”

Paradigm shifts sometimes snuck up on you. The acknowledgment was heartfelt, heartbreaking and right. It truly was a new world unfolding, Stiles had just been too busy running after Scott, battling his own insecurities in the wake of the possession, and generally trying to keep alive, to truly notice.

The sheriff found them like that, still embracing a few minutes later. He didn’t comment, just walked past them, glancing approvingly at the chicken simmering in the pan. Stiles thought he looked a bit misty eyed. He was a bit misty eyed himself, truth be told. Later they would blame the onions, even though the dinner was perfectly onion free.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As always you can find me on tumblr - darachmoon.tumblr.com. I'd love to hear your feedback - don't be a stranger :)


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is from Malia's POV. For those wondering (and I'm sure there are a few), this fic will for the most part be told from Stiles' POV. There will occasionally be some short installments from Malia's POV. Fret not, they serve a purpose.

The door slammed hard causing the lamp hanging haphazardly from the ceiling to swing back and forth like the pendulum of an old clock. The movement sent eerie shadows across the walls in the sparsely lit motel room. It was a testament to both Malia’s keen senses and her many years living in the wilderness, that she didn’t flinch or scare.

“Did you bring food?” she asked bluntly in lieu of a hello. Braeden’s answered hiss didn’t bode well. She stomped through the room, leaving muddy boot prints in her wake, before storming into the bathroom. Malia sighed deeply and switched the channel perfectly in sync with Braeden slamming the door shut. Great. Another nature show. Oh, the joy.

She watched with ill-concealed disinterest as a cheetah chased after and took down a limping gnu. The narrator sounded sad and bewildered. Almost as if he actually expected the gnu to make a spectacular getaway. Malia knew better. Survival of the fittest was how things worked, end of story. How people seemed so sad and angry about it was beyond her reasoning. If you wanted to live, you had to be smart, adapt, hone your skills and attack rather than hide. Which was precisely why she was hunting her mother. Survival of the fittest. She’d survived by chance the first time. Which meant she wasn’t sitting around waiting for the Desert Wolf to try again. Malia was not a gnu.

A few minutes later Braeden reemerged, hair wet and wearing fresh clothes, and a marginally less thunderous expression. She plopped down on her designated twin bed, muttering expletives under her breath.

“So no news, then?” asked Malia impatiently. Braeden shook her head.  
“Damned dead end. That piece of shit didn’t know anything, and yet still had the gall to try and hit on me.”  
“Let me guess,” said Malia tiredly. “You hit _him_ instead?”  
“Damned straight I did. Socked him on the nose.”

Braeden sounded proud. At least her mood was gradually improving. That still didn’t help the fact that Malia was starving.

“You said you’d bring food.”  
“Oh,” mumbled Braeden, fishing out her phone. “I totally forgot. Doesn't matter, I’m not really hungry anyway.”

This was a typical recurrence where Braeden was concerned. She often projected her own needs, moods and ideas onto others. If she wasn’t hungry, she seemed to assume no one else was either. It was rather infuriating to be honest. Sometimes Malia wondered what had caused Braeden to turn into this hard, no-nonsense kind of woman with little to no empathy to spare. Even with years as a coyote and some seriously underdeveloped social skills, Malia was more in tune with people around her, scary as it was. She totally got that US Marshals had to be tough, but surely a sliver of compassion and empathy couldn't really hurt, could it? She couldn't help but compare her to Sheriff Stilinski. Next to him, Braeden came up horribly short. 

“I was hungry _before_ you left, which means I’m even hungrier _now_ ,” commented Malia, struggling to keep her tone civil. Braeden didn’t as much as raise an eyebrow, much less apologize or address Malia’s predicament. On the TV screen, the focus was on an orphaned baby gnu struggling to find food. Malia could relate, which frankly angered her. She hated feeling helpless.

Truthfully, tagging along with Braeden felt less and less like a partnership by the day. Today, Malia had been instructed to stay put and not leave the room since there supposedly was a half-assed rumor floating around that the Desert Wolf was in town. Privately, she suspected Braeden just didn't want her to tag along.  Not that Malia felt any sort of burning need to stay glued to her all day anyway, but this time Braeden had been gone almost nine hours, something that clearly had included a lunch and perhaps even a dinner break. Malia had nursed a pack of cashew nuts, her hate for her birth mother and little else.

“That’s it! I’m going out to get some food myself!”

She grabbed her jacket and marched for the door.

“Hey, Malia. _Buy_ some food, alright?” Braeden tossed a 20 in her direction. “No roaming the nearby woods and shifting to catch rabbits. And stick close by!”  
“That was one time,” whined Malia. “And I prefer rabbits to fries. Or pizza for that matter.”

Braeden simply rolled her eyes. “Suck it up. We don’t want to attract attention. If you want to get your mother, we need to be on the down low. Which means acting like normal people, eating greasy food and drinking carbonated, artificially flavored drinks by the bucket.”

Malia answered by slamming the door on her way out. Evidently, it was how they communicated best these days.

Outside she breathed in the fresh air and instantly felt calmer. Months and months living as a human and she still felt like an alien most days. She had to admit that pillows and mattresses were an improvement on the hard ground in her coyote den, but she missed the outdoors. It was gradually getting easier, but she often felt like a caged animal. The dingy motel rooms didn’t exactly help.

Malia curled her fingers around the wrinkled 20-dollar bill, fighting the urge to ignore Braeden’s request, and simply shift, and run towards the nearby forest. A juicy rabbit would be just the ticket. Instead, she took a deep breath, gritted her teeth and crossed the street to the 24-hour diner. The waitress balked a bit when Malia ordered two burgers, fries and a side of onion rings, but didn’t comment. Perhaps too used to odd orders, and odd people in general. These cheap motels tended to attract a certain sort of clientele. Malia suspected she was gradually turning into one of them. After weeks on the road, what little interest she had in clothes and makeup had peeled away. Her hair could use a trim and Lydia would surely purse her lips at the state of her cuticles.

Whatever. It wasn’t important anyway. What good did cute outfits and shiny hair do if her every moment was spent looking over her shoulder, wondering when her crazy mother would pop out of the woodwork with a semi-automatic handgun and just blow her away. She needed to get this out of the way. To find peace of mind. Until the threat of the Desert Wolf was dealt with, Malia was a liability to her friends back in Beacon Hills. Which was why she’d left. Hard as it had been.

The waitress returned with a steaming cup of coffee. Malia pounced on it like a woman starved, burned the roof of her mouth in the process but didn’t care. It would heal fast enough anyway. She forced herself to not drink it all in one go; to have something to savor while she waited for the food to arrive.

She fished out her phone and flipped through some of the messages from the last few weeks. She’d kept her word to Stiles and texted him every day. He’d kept his promise too, and returned each and every one of them.

Malia sighed deeply. It always ached in her chest when she thought of Stiles. It was an odd sort of feeling that she’d never experienced in coyote form. It had scared her at first. The kind of scared tahat made her want to run back to the Preserve and hide. Her heart would suddenly beat faster, as if she was under threat. Which was ridiculous of course. Stiles was about as harmless as a kitten.

It was Lydia who’d explained to her what it meant, and the implications. Human emotions were so complex it often left her confused, though marginally more comprehensible than math. What Malia had learned in the process of trying to navigate this maelstrom of new feelings, was that Stiles had the power to hurt her in ways she’d never entertained.

To a certain degree, he already had.

Her breath still hitched  whenever his name flashed on her phone. Yet, it was slightly subdued. A bit faded somehow. Which was good. Malia knew perfectly well that Stiles’ heart never skipped in the same manner that hers did when they were together. That was the curse of supernatural hearing. His words might be sweet and his actions loving, but his heart still betrayed him. She’d ignored it in the beginning, but had gradually worked to accept it. She was much more perceptive than the pack usually gave her credit for. In time, hers might stop skipping beats around him as well. Maybe. She hoped so.

The burgers arrived and for the next few minutes, Malia simply ate, her mind blissfully blank. By the time she was nursing the last of the onion rings her phone let out a shrill little beep signaling a new text. Her traitorous heart skipped several beats, but for nothing. It wasn’t from Stiles, but Kira.

**_Hi, hope ur doing good. Found your mom yet? Things are weird here after the whole beast thing. Stiles accidentally locked coach in his office after lacrosse today with his magic. He definitely needs more practice. Hope to see you in BH soon. Miss you. K_ **

It was odd thinking that Stiles was magic. For some reason Malia felt slightly betrayed. He’d kept that from her. That too.  Kira had said Stiles was as surprised as everyone else by this turn of events, but somehow she doubted that was entirely true. It only added to the realization that Stiles hid more than he shared. She had no doubt he’d hidden it from everyone, himself included. It would be just like him to try and deny it or suppress it. She shouldn’t be hurt by this, but still she was. She’d shared everything with him, never masked her feelings, her confusion or her urges in any way or form. Stiles had never returned the sentiment. Not fully.

Still, she couldn’t hate him, or resent him. No, that wasn't true. She did recent him a bit. Malia snorted loudly causing a couple of pot-bellied truckers to turn and stare at her quizzically. She ignored them and eventually they turned back to their food. Malia continued her inner musings. She'd let him know too, in some way or shape when she got back. Why should he get off the hook? That was much of their problem, as a unit. As a pack. They didn't talk, not about the important stuff.

But hate? No, that was not possible.

Malia flagged down the waitress again and ordered a large milkshake.

“Are you sure about that, honey?” the woman asked, looking bewildered at the empty plates. Malia simply grinned, perhaps a bit too widely. Stiles used to tell her she looked slightly deranged doing that. The waitress obviously shared that sentiment if the things she muttered under her breath were anything to go by.

Malia composed a somewhat legible message back to Kira, and fell back into thoughts. Magic Stiles was one thing. That almost made sense. Cloned Derek on the other hand she still had trouble coming to grips with. Malia had spent hours asking Braeden all kinds of questions about him. _The clone._ The concept was still sci-fi levels of far-fetched. He’d been gone by the time Malia joined Braeden on the road, and Braeden had been uncharacteristically tight-lipped about it. Malia wasn’t sure if it was because she was genuinely hurt that he’d taken off without a word, if she felt betrayed or was simply heartbroken. Perhaps it was a little of everything. At any rate, Braeden had refused to talk to the real Derek when he called, and only reluctantly spoken to Stiles. Even then, it was only in clipped and short sentences. Obviously, the whole thing bothered her far more than she let on. Why else would she be so standoffish? 

From what Malia had pieced together, Clone Derek had vanished in the middle of the night, leaving their motel room without a word. He’d left behind all his clothes and belongings as far as Braeden could see, including his phone, which was suspicious to say the least. Malia still didn’t know why Braeden hadn’t contacted anyone or tried to find him. Or, perhaps she had. Either way, she wasn’t talking about it.

Malia had fond memories of Derek, fake as he might be, asking her for help tracking down Satomi and her pack. He’d made her feel useful and important. Thinking about him caused her chest to ache again, albeit in a different way than with Stiles. Or perhaps she’d just eaten too much again. Sometimes it was hard to tell the difference.

Malia paid the bill, taking note to leave tips. It was one of the few useful applications she’d had for math. Stiles had been right about that. The waitress seemed pleased enough at least, throwing a jaunty “ _come again soon”_ after her as she exited the diner. Malia smiled widely, once again possibly showing too much teeth. She needed to work on that. Not that it matter much, she doubted they’d be back. Braeden seldom stayed in one place for long and they’d been her two nights already.

Again, she felt drawn towards the forest area behind the motel, but quelled the urge by marching purposefully towards the rundown building, whistling shrilly to the tune of one of those pop songs that seemed to play on a continuous loop on every radio station at every hour of the day. A man with a cowboy and his shirt unbuttoned almost to his navel stared at her from a pay phone. Malia stared back. Something in her periphial vision drew her attention. She turned to look, the man with the cowboy hat had his back turned. Malia shrugged, then walked on, still unfathomably intrigued and wondering why he looked so thunderous when he appeared to be talking to his mom. She’d do anything to talk to her mother again. The adoptive one, mind you. The biological one she just wanted to rip to shreds.

Just as she came up on their motel room she felt a prickle run down her back. Malia knew that sensation. It was the sensation of being watched. It was the odd little premonition you sometimes got when some predator had zoned in on you. She spun around, hoping to catch whoever it was in the act. The area around them was empty and silent, though. Except for the man with the cowboy hat still on the phone, his back still to her. She sniffed but didn’t catch any alien scents aside from a generous dose of Axe body spray. Perplexed and relieved she opened the door and stepped inside.

Braeden was on the phone. She was sitting on her bed, hands on her knees and phone plastered to one ear in what looked like a very tense and uncomfortable position. It matched her clipped tone perfectly.

“… makes no sense. I still can’t believe – I know. Yeah I guess, if it's the only way - Of course I want to go back, don't be silly. Why do you think I'm doing all this?”

She sounded annoyed and angry. Either she hadn’t noticed Malia’s return or she didn’t care. Usually Braeden stepped out of the room when she was on the phone, keeping Malia as far out of the loop as she possibly could. Not that she cared one way or the other. As long as the end result was the death of the Desert Wolf Malia didn’t much care what shady business Braeden got up to, what laws she broke or what under-the-table deals were made. That didn’t mean she wasn’t curious. For someone who’d once been an officer of the law, Braeden acted more like a criminal than anything else.

“It’s a good thing there are contingencies, then,” commented Braeden. Malia couldn’t make out the response, but the caller was obviously male.  
“Yes, of course I’m careful. I have full control of – “

Her comment stopped abruptly when she spotted Malia by the door.

“I’ve gotta go. Yes. Yes.”

She hung up without further ado, tossed the phone onto the bed and flopped carelessly on top of it, smiling widely, her stupid Italian boots smearing dirt all over the covers. As if this place wasn’t disgustingly filthy already.

“So, did you bring me back some food?”

Malia rolled her eyes, shrugged off her jacket and stalked to the bathroom without responding.  
“Is that a no?” called Braeden sounding perturbed.

Malia shut the bathroom door with a bang, feeling a strange sort of satisfaction that they'd come full circle with the door slamming. It didn't weigh up for the fact that she missed Beacon Hills with every fiber of her being. Even math.


	3. Chapter 3

“Stiles, you need to focus. Otherwise how will you be able to control this? To reach a balance.”

Focus.

Control.

Balance.

These three clusters of letters were rapidly making valid bids to enter Stiles’ top ten list of most hated words, a dubious honor by all standards. He’d never thought the day would come when loathed words such as “moist” and “Harris” would risk losing their chart topping placements. This trifecta of verbs were so frequently hurled in his direction, it was getting beyond tiresome. Basically, they were the bane of his existence, primarily because he seemed to lack all three of them. At least, according to Ms. Morrell.

“I’m trying,” he gritted out between clenched teeth, pushing down the urge to direct all his magical abilities into a Mute Hex. Not that there was any such thing. Morrell had squashed all of Stiles’ happy Hogwarts dreams in their very first session. She was back to her day job as a guidance counselor at the high school, and Stiles had rapidly renamed her office “The Dungeon of Doom”. Professor Flitwick, she was not.

“If that is trying I’m scared for your future, Mr. Stilinski.”

Stiles bit back a snarky comment. They always felt wasted on her anyway. Morrell delivered all her sentences with such poise and perfect enunciation Stiles felt like a plebeian next to her. Just like her brother, nothing seemed to ruffle her and she never lost her cool. Apparently, Zen ran deep in the Deaton bloodline. Hell, they probably invented the concept and were living comfortably off the copyright deals.

Instead of focusing, Stiles jumped aboard a random thought-carousel. This time he was stuck contemplating why their surnames were different. Deaton and Morrell were siblings, and as far as he knew Morrell wasn’t married or anything. So, had their parents split and one of them taken their mother's maiden name in sympathy? Were they half-siblings with different dads? Crazy adoption gone awry? Surrogate gone wild? Immaculate conception? He didn’t dare ask, though, even if he was dying to know. Judging by the tilt of her chin she was not in the mood to share. Not that she ever was to be honest. Her philosophy seemed to be ask, not tell. Which was probably a sound approach in the cases of troubled youth and psychopaths looking to be rehabilitated. Stiles strongly felt he didn’t fit into any of those boxes, thank you very much. He couldn’t see how telling him some stuff outright, instead of making him jump through psychological magic loops, was such a bad thing. Given the tendency Beacon Hills had of attracting various supernatural foes, he could definitely benefit from a shortcut. Sadly, Morrell didn’t share his convictions.

“Care to try again.”

It was phrased like a question, but the tone of voice determinedly imperative. Honestly? No. He didn’t want to try again. He’d rather be home cleaning the gutters with a toothbrush. Because this. This was not working. At all.

Stiles stared dubiously at the jar in front of him. It contained some sort of liquid that apparently he should be able to set on fire with his mind if he just concentrated, or whatever. So far, a grand total of nothing had happened, and Stiles felt a headache coming on.  Still, he gave it another shot. He took a deep breath and a made a valiant attempt at locating his inner Jedi . It was useless. His mind was like a labyrinth of queries, but no answers. A minute later all he had to show for was a sweaty forehead and all of Morrell’s file cabinets unlocked and opened. Clearly, the force was not with him. At least not the right one.

“I give up! How am I supposed to make holy water or whatever shit this is, catch fire? I don’t get it. Should I get a wand? Would a wand help? To like, direct my mojo or whatnot? Act like a conductor or some shit?”

Morrell pursed her lips, the only visible sign that she was in fact human, and then shook her head.

“We’ve been over this before, Stiles. You’ll not be getting your Hogwarts letter anytime soon.”

“Well, obviously not,” he replied haughtily. “Hogwarts is in England, it makes no sense for me to go there. Ilvermorny on the other hand. Oh, nevermind," he muttered and poked at the glass tenatively. "What is this anyway?” He leaned over and sniffed at the jar, unable to mask his skepticism. “Water can’t burn and I don’t smell gasoline. Is this a trick?”

“It’s water infused with a mix of herbs. And no, before you ask, I’m not telling you which ones so you can google it. A spark can light it. That’s all you need to know. The water makes it more difficult, but not impossible.”

Morrell folded her arms on top of the desk, leaning forwards slightly.

“You’ve shown the most power around objects you understand, like locks, engines and so on. Your mind grasps the mechanics of those processes, and thus the spark interacts more easily. This is designed to be a challenge, because it isn’t logical to your brain. The spark should recognize it though, if you can access it. But that will, as always, require balance, will and belief. You’ve done this before. You told me about stretching the mountain ash outside that rave. That wasn’t logical either.”

Stiles knew she was right, but it didn’t help much. That time had been different. Lives had been at stake, gunfire was heard in the distance, the kanima was on the loose. Now, the only thing in danger of dying was Stiles’ motivation and self-confidence.

Morrell glanced at her watch, expertly ignoring Stiles annoyed mutterings.

“Your hour is almost up.”

“Thank god,” he grumbled under his breath, squirming in his seat. “This is clearly a waste of time anyway. I’m doing alright as it is. I can do some stuff.”

Morrell sighed and leaned back in her chair, regarding him from below hooded eyelids.

“I’m not sure your father shares that sentiment. He mentioned you locked him in the bathroom for several hours the other day. Clearly, you’re not in control. That is our first order of business. Expanding the spark would be beneficial, of course. But if you can’t learn to control it at this level, we have to look into ways of shutting it down. I assume you don’t want that.”

Shockingly, he didn’t. Morrell had mentioned the possibility of turning it all off in their very first session. Only a few weeks earlier, Stiles would probably jumped at the chance. He’d been suppressing and ignoring the signs for months and years even. He’d probably still be denying it right now if Peter fucking Hale hadn’t forced him to confront it by locking him in one of the cells at the sheriff station, just moments after telling him Derek was in some sort of mortal peril.

This thing was part of him. Stiles realized that now. He’d felt something brewing ever since the ice baths. Deaton had called it a darkness, but now he knew better. It wasn’t dark. Not unless he wanted it to be.

“Stiles? Stiles, are you with me?”  
“Yeah, I hear you,” he muttered.  
“Good. I need you to commit to this. Locking your dad in was bad enough. He missed an appearance in court. That kind of thing reflects badly on him.”

Stiles groaned. That particular incident would haunt him for years, he just knew it.

“I’ve apologized for that, and it wasn’t as if I meant to do it. I was just – “

“Letting your emotions rule you?”

Morrell arched an eyebrow. She was good at that he noted. She’d probably hung around werewolves for too long. That shit tended to rub off on you.

Stiles threw his hands up, huffed and slumped further into her very uncomfortable chair. He wished she’d at least invest in a couch if these sessions were going to be a long term thing. Or as a compromise, provide some fluffy cushions.

“Alright, yes. I admit I was a bit annoyed with him at the time. He’d been nagging me about homework, training and – “

“- suggesting you spend less time with Mr. Hale?”

Damn. 

He hated when his father and his magic mentor stuck their heads together and discussed him, like he was some sort of delinquent that needed to be put in his place. Okay, so he kind of was, but still. Rude.

“Something like that, yeah,” he admitted with a clipped grimace.

“Let me ask you something, Stiles.” Morrell pierced him with that intense gaze. The one you couldn’t escape. “Do you ever accidentally perform magic when you’re around Mr. Hale?”

“ _Derek_. Please, for the love of everything that is holy, stop calling him Mr. Hale. It makes me feel like I’m in some sort of warped twink/daddy relationship.”

Morrell tilted her head as if saying, “aren’t you”. Stiles felt the rush of his own blood pick up pace. Next, the table fan roared to life, quickly turning all of Morrell’s neat stacks of journals into a paper tornado.

“Shit! Crap! Oh man!”

Stiles burst out of his chair, knocking it over in the process and began diving for the papers. Morrell regarded him soundlessly for a moment before swiveling calmly in her chair, then unplugged the fan. Stiles was left standing awkwardly in the middle of the office, clutching a wad of paper in his hands. He dimly noticed they were all blank.

“These aren’t even real journals!”

He dropped them as if burned, backing away from Morrell. His heart rate had slowed down, but he still felt annoyed. Irked even. Her desk lamp flickered in time with his pulse.

“No, Stiles, they’re not. Call it a test, if you will. Please sit down. I want to share an observation with you. I think it might be beneficial.”

Reluctantly he did as she asked. Morrell smiled minutely, opened a desk drawer and produced a cushion. She handed it over and Stiles accepted it wordlessly. Not for the first time he wondered if she was psychic. It would explain a whole lot.

“Do you remember a session we had a while back? It was around the time Gerard Argent was wreaking havoc on the town, exploiting Jackson’s state as a kanima.”

Stiles nodded, mouth pursed. Matt had just died. Scott had been shot, Melissa had just found out about werewolves. Jackson was the kanima. Derek was biting teenager left and right. Stiles had gotten his dad fired, and the majority of his life was based on lying through his teeth or running for his life. He’d been a ball of emotions, but without an outlet for it. In a rare case of desperation, he’d partially opened up to his guidance counselor. A decision he in hindsight had regretted, but what could you do.

“What I realized that day,” continued Morrell “was that the teenager sitting in front of me was someone bursting with emotions.”

Stiles grimaced. Yeah, just what he wanted to talk about. Feelings. Morrell powered on.

“I’m not just talking about the emotions you allow people to see. The anger, the annoyance, the frustration, the joy over superficial things. You talk a lot, Stiles, but you say very little. Particularly about yourself. Everything connected to you, you hide. Your pain. Your insecurities. Your fears. Those kinds of emotions build. You can hold off for a long time, but eventually the dam breaks.”

She leaned forward, distracting Stiles from the protests building.

“Your magic is tied to your emotions. I think you know that. So far it only comes out in bursts when you’re in danger and adrenaline takes over. Or, when your own emotions reach a peak. Basically, your spark has learned to follow the same patterns as your emotions. Little things, like locking a door you can control if you concentrate, even without the rush of adrenaline. Bigger things – and yes you are capable of so much more – are out of your controllable reach for the moment. That doesn't mean it can't be accessed. But without a way of focusing the spark, and of controlling what happens, the consequences could be devastating. Lethal even.  ”

It made sense, and it didn’t.

“What exactly are you saying? I need to control my emotions? Learn how to _express myself_? No offense lady, but I’m very adept at stringing together sentences, and I’m not afraid to tell people how I feel, something my teachers can attest to I’m sure.”

“Sarcasm and witty banter isn’t the kind of expression of self I was alluding to, and you know it.”

Morrell looked impressively patient. “You’re evading my point, something which is more or less proving my point. I’ve heard rumors you and Scott aren’t on the best of terms. I have a feeling the reason for that is tied to emotions not expressed. We also have the guilt you’re feeling after the possession, not to mention the fate of Donovan. And please,“ she raised a finger – “spare me the protests.”

“What’s your point?” hissed Stiles, voice steely.  
“ _Balance_. Balance is my point. Your spark will flow easily and be controllable to you as soon as you’ve found better balance. Right now, you’re not in balance, Stiles. I think you know that.”

She was right. He knew she was right. Unless he was directly tapped into the currents, or preferably by the Nemeton Stiles always felt slightly off-kilter. That still didn’t make his assignment any easier.

“What do I do?”

Morrell smiled, and for once, it actually reached her eyes. It was amazing what difference that made.

“You practice. And you start by finding the places, the people, the thoughts, the memories or ideas that makes you feel the most stable. Practice how to let people know how your feeling. Stop lying. Stop hiding behind a wall. Werewolves often talk about anchors, something to help them balance the human side and the wolf. Anchors aren’t the best solution, but it’s a step in the right direction in order to reach that state where you know all sides of you – the good and the bad – and finding that middle ground. Anchors mean letting go. Anchors mean to trust someone or something to ground you. Anchors mean opening up, exposing yourself. The good, the bad, the anger, the dreams, the doubts, the fears. Everything.”

She reached across her desk, and laid a cool hand on top of his, squeezing it reassuringly.

“What are your anchors, Stiles?”

It was so simple. So obvious. And yet, he’d been blind to it.

“The Nemeton,” he whispered, voice breaking. “Being by the Nemeton calms me. Makes me feel in control. So yeah. The Nemeton.”

He swallowed, cheeks reddening, averting his gaze. This was hard. He wasn’t used to this. To lay himself bare like this. In the end he decided to let go, to admit and pray it helped.  
“The Nemeton - and Derek.”

Morrell nodded, having probably known this all along.

“Okay. That’s where you start. Those are your anchors; your stepping stones. Lean on them, trust them. Open up to them, and you’ll hopefully come to trust yourself as well.”

Stiles felt queasy. This was not going to be easy. Not even remotely.


	4. Chapter 4

“Kira, is that you?”

Stiles froze in the hallway as Melissa McCall emerged from the laundry room by the kitchen, a stack of folded clothes in her arms. He could hear the dryer rumbling in the background, which explained why no one had answered the door when he rang the bell.

“Stiles?”

“Hey.”

He waved awkwardly, suddenly assaulted by a sense of déjà vu, suddenly feeling 16 years old again. He raked a hand over his head nervously, and was almost surprised to find that he wasn’t sporting a buzz cut.

“Oh, hey, it’s you. Sorry, I didn’t hear the bell.” She tilted her head and regarded him through narrow eyes. Stiles cringed. He knew that look all to well.  
“Didn’t I lock the door?”

Melissa set the towels down on the hallway dresser, crossed her arms, eyebrows knitted together in a frown. “We changed the locks a few months ago. I didn’t know you had a key to this one. “

Stiles waggled his fingers like an amateur magician. Hell, he more or less was an amateur magician.

“I don’t really need a key anymore,” he said sheepishly. Melissa’s eyes bugged.

“Crap, of course, that’s right. I totally forgot.” She sighed. “That doesn’t really surprise me. It scares me, but doesn’t surprise me. Not at all. You’ve always had a knack for getting through locked doors when you set your mind to it. Like some junior Houdini.”

Stiles didn’t know if he were supposed to be offended or take it as a compliment. Probably both. He settled for an awkward shrug.

“I guess you’re here to see Scott?” she asked, her voice raising slightly sounding hopeful. He nodded and Melissa exhaled, visibly relieved.

“Thank God! Please, for the love of everything, get my son out of this house. Or better yet, out of his funk! All he does is sit in his room and mope. I got a call from school yesterday. He’s flunking history and apparently he’s dropped out of AP Biology.”

Stiles’ mouth dropped open. He didn’t know that! Melissa was getting worked up, curls dancing around her head as she spoke with a lot of hand gestures.  
“It was one thing when he was flunking because of supernatural crap.. Now, he’s flunking because – well I don’t know why. He’s not really in a sharing mood with me, and frankly I feel like whacking him with my frying pan!”

She spun around and waved for Stiles to follow her into the kitchen. “I would do it too, you know if I didn’t think it would hurt the pan more than Scott. Take this to him, will you? He didn’t come down for dinner.”

Melissa handed him a tray overflowing with lasagna and garlic bread. Stiles was possibly drooling. Just a little. Melissa rolled her eyes and shook her head.

“Hold on.”

She walked to the counter and came back with another plate and set of cutlery. “There should be enough for you too. Now, I’m going to retire to the living room to catch up on Grey’s Anatomy and pretend that I work there instead of Beacon Hills Memorial Horror. You go work your magic on my son.”  
She sauntered off cackling softly, probably at her own lame pun, leaving Stiles standing gawkily balancing the overflowing tray. After a few seconds hesitation, he squared his shoulders and started for the stairs.

_“Don’t eat on the bed!”_

Stiles flinched, narrowly avoiding dropping the bread. He managed to save it with a body spasm he was thankful no one witnessed.

“Of course not,” he bellowed back, voice so sweet cavities were inevitable. “Wouldn’t even dream of it.”

Melissa snorted loudly from the vicinity of the living room. “Sure you wouldn’t. Let’s keep it like that, alright? I still have nightmares about a mix of salsa, guacamole and what I can only pray was ranch dressing adorned in creative patterns all over Scott’s bed and carpet after one memorably night of adolescent sleepover. I know you were there and I suspect a food fight took place. If I find lasagna in unexpected places, I’m evoking your invitation to enter the house.”

“How? I’m not a vampire. I’ll still get in, I always do. Magic hands!”

“I’ll find a way, you mark my words.”

Sensing nothing good would come from further arguments he simply threw a half-hearted “Acknowledged!” over his shoulder. Melissa seemed pleased enough.

“Splendid. Now leave! Someone’s in mortal peril at Seattle Grace and it’s not monster related. This really is fiction, and I need to live vicariously through it.”

 

***

 

The door to Scott’s room was ajar. Hands fully occupied balancing the tray of food, Stiles used his foot to gently pry it open. Everything was quiet. No music. No sound of games being played or Scott talking on the phone. It was borderline eerie. Something felt off. Way off. Stiles felt a foreboding feeling spread from the center of his chest and out in all directions, like little stress beacons.

“Hey, Scott you in there?”

Stiles took a tentative step into the room, half afraid of what he’d find. Still no sound could be heard which was troubling. Scott was many things, but quiet was not one of them. Scanning the room, it took a while before Stiles even noticed Scott. He was sitting perfectly still in the chair in the corner, staring blankly out the window.

“Scott?”

No reaction.

Stiles put the tray down on top of a pile of books, papers and notes strewn out in total disarray on the desk. He spotted the AP Biology book on the floor partially covered by clothes and comics. Clearly it hadn’t been cracked open lately which supported what Melissa had said about Scott dropping out of the class. He totally got that it was a tough class, but Scott had been raving about wanting to be a veterinarian for ages. Why would he give it up so easily?

“Scott?”

Still nothing. Stiles inched closer, vaguely wondering if he was asleep. He was a werewolf with enhanced senses - he should have detected Stiles coming a mile away. Literally!

“Oh, for the love of God. SCOTT!”

He snapped his fingers impatiently in front of Scott face, and finally got a reaction, albeit a very sluggish one. So much for werewolf powers. Was there an off switch? A power down mode? If so Scott took way too long to reboot, which was slightly worrying should another monstrous villain have the audacity to roll into town. Who was he kidding? Given their luck and the town’s history it was only a matter of when.

Stiles stared at Scott not really sure how to proceed. He was blinking owlishly and staring directly at Stiles without appearing to really notice him. Frankly he looked stoned. Or drugged. This sad state was not Scott’s A game. In fact, it wasn’t even a game that registered on any part of the alphabet. Stiles suddenly understood why Kira and Melissa were so worried.

“Stiles?”

Scott finally made eye-contact and seemed genuinely surprised to find Stiles in his room.

“He lives,” joked Stiles half-heartedly, plopping down on the bed facing him. Scott rubbed his eyes, then his hands dragged down across his cheeks before dropping limply into his lap.

“I didn’t hear you, sorry,” he muttered, popping his neck and stretching awkwardly. “What are you doing here?”

Stiles didn’t get a chance to answer. Suddenly, as if electrocuted, Scott startled, eyes widening in worry. 

“Did something happen? Is something wrong?”

He was scrambling to get out of the chair, but Stiles shook his head, reached forward and pushed Scott gently back into the chair.

“Nah, nothing’s wrong. Nothing monstrous at any rate. You on the other hand seem to be a bit down on the dumps. Care to share?”

Scott shrugged, leaned back and closed his eyes. Seconds ticked by without a response. Stiles craned his neck to make sure he was awake. He couldn’t have him powering down again, so he poked on the thigh.

“Hey you, nap time is over, okay? Now, so let me rephrase that. Tell me what’s wrong. Notice the commanding tone. If you don’t comply I’m adding an exclamation point. You know I’m good for it.” Stiles nudged Scott again good-naturedly, but didn’t get his normal response of awkward laughs or headlocks.

“Seriously, bro. Talk to me. People are starting to worry.”

Scott startled somewhat. “What do you mean? Who’s worried about me?”

“ _Everyone_ , dude.”

Scott looked honestly perplexed, like he couldn’t phantom this. “Why?” he asked, jaw endearingly uneven, eyes Bambi-like. Stiles felt torn between wanting to pet his hair and wring his neck.  
Let’s start with Kira. The girl is on the verge of a nervous breakdown. You don’t return her calls or texts. You hardly talked to her at school today. You hardly talked to anyone at school today. You skipped lacrosse practice. Coach almost had a coronary.”

Stiles grimaced. Although, that bit with coach might partially be my fault. I accidentally locked him in his office. Anyway, my point is, you’re ignoring her, us, everyone. Your mom is beside herself. Schoolwork is suffering. So, yeah. We worry.”

“I’m sorry. I don’t mean to.”

Scott sounded genuinely pained. He stared at his hands, played with a loose thread on the sleeve of his sweater. “It’s just lately I’ve been a bit, I dunno. Down I guess. The whole thing with the beast hit me a lot harder than I expected. It brought stuff to the surface. Stuff I hadn’t really processed. I just feel - kind of paralyzed I guess.”

“I get that,” said Stiles. He truly did. He knew a thing or two about suppressing emotions. It seldom ended well. “Kira gets that as well. She understands that seeing Allison, even if it wasn’t really her, was a blow to the gut. But you shouldn’t shut her out.”

He grabbed Scott’s hands, stilling them, and squeezed reassuringly. “Allison was amazing and we all understand that you miss her, and probably always will to a certain extent. Kira is amazing too. And she’s here and alive. If you love her, you should hold on to her. She’s the kind of girl that will allow you the time and space to grieve and never judge. Don’t dismiss that. Don’t take it for granted.”

“I - I won’t.”

They descended into silence after that.

Stiles still didn’t feel as if they were back on track after the whole debacle with Donovan. The talk they’d promised to have had been postponed in the wake of what happened at the abandoned mall. Stiles had fallen into a mix of Derek-infused bliss and Morrell-tainted frustration. Scott had. for the first time in a long time. fallen several spots down on Siiles’ priority list. Which was a shitty thing, and dripping of hypocrisy. He intended to change that, starting now.

“Food?” he finally asked, jerking his head in the direction of the by now lukewarm lasagna. Scott nodded. The next few minutes were spent consuming Melissa’s arguably excellent cooking with little to none table manners. It was probably the first normal thing they’d done together in months. It almost felt cathartic.

“Sorry about missing lacrosse today.”

The words were somewhat muffled by the last of the garlic bread. Scott’s bed was covered in crumbs. Stiles prayed Melissa would be occupied with procedural medical shows all night. Thankfully, crumbs didn’t stain. Much.

“Don’t apologize to me,” said Stiles, leaning back feeling like he was about to burst. “It was coach that went semi ballistic. He did take his frustrations out on us, but he always does that anyway, so don’t worry about it. Just show up next time, all right. What did you do anyway?”

Scott shrugged. “I just went home. Did a bit of homework I think.” He sighed deeply, then rubbed the back of his head in a manner that Stiles knew meant he was struggling with something.

“It’s just, lately I’ve been feeling, I guess a bit empty is the best way to describe it. I just sort of lapse into a state of nothingness, where everything seems to move in slow motion and is a bit foggy. Mostly I see Allison. Hear the echoes of her laugh. Think for fleeting moments that I can smell her perfume or something. Sometimes I feel as if I can see her out of the corner of my eye.”  
He was talking to his hands again, not meeting Stiles’ eyes. In that moment Scott looked small. Sort of like the guy Stiles remembered from before he was bitten.

“I think that’s kind of normal,” replied Stiles. “You never really took the time to properly grieve when she died. We never talked much about it, at any rate. It’s not surprising that seeing her brought that all back. You’re kind of reliving the loss, and this is part of the grieving process or whatever. Have you talked to your mom about this?”

Scott shook his head. “No, and I don’t really want to. Not now at least. You’re probably right. I’ll try to snap out of it.”

Stiles balked, shaking his head.

“Dude, that was not what I meant. You can’t just decide to be done with grieving. That is some long term shit, believe me I know. Just don’t shut us out. Kira, your mom and me, we’re here for you, okay.”

Scott a deep breath lifted his head and met Stiles’ eyes. “Okay,” he respired almost inaudibly.

“Okay,” countered Stiles with a soft smile. For the first time in a long time it felt as if they actually could be just that. Okay. Eventually. This was a first step, minuscule as it might be.  
“So,” said Scott, clasping his hands together. “Enough about me and my woes. Tell me about what’s going on with you.”

Stiles grinned almost manically. “Really?”

Scott nodded encouragingly. “Really. Of course, I want to know. Lay it on me.”

Stiles kneaded his hands together. “Oh my, where to begin,” he mused.

“Is it hard? How do you handle it?” asked Scott, looking genuinely interested.  
“So hard,” confirmed Stiles with a vigorous head nod. “I handle it differently all according to mood and urgency. Sometimes I just use my hands, other times my mouth. I think I like that best, to be honest.”

“Stiles?” Scott suddenly looked like he’d opened a birthday present expecting puppies only to discover tarantulas instead. “What exactly are you talking about?”

Stiles arched an eyebrow. “Derek’s cock, of course. So hard, dude, and yet silky smooth.”

A chocked sound escaped Scott before he dived for a pillow. “DUDE!” he squeaked unmanly. “TMI! So incredibly TMI.”

“You asked,” responded Stiles with a huff, crossing his arms. He’d lived through the trauma of Allison-gate, he felt entitled to a bit of raving and over-sharing.

“NO! No, I did not ask about –.” Scott waved his hands in the general direction of Stiles’ genital area. “Not about that! I asked about your magic thing and if that was hard, you know – working with Morrell. At least that’s what I was trying to ask about. Jesus Christ! I might need therapy after this.”

“Oh.”

Stiles deflated like a bouncy castle overrun by taloned beasts.

Scott peeked out from behind the pillow, a pained look on his face. “Sorry,” he mumbled, looking like a somewhat queasy Labrador. “I don’t mean to suggest that what you have with Derek is disgusting or anything like that. Honestly! Your comments just blindsided me a bit, and now I have unwanted mental images.”

“You’re considering bleach, aren’t you?” said Stiles deadpan. Scott’s eyes bugged.

“How did you know?”

Stiles snorted. “Trust me; it’s a common reaction for some reason. Personally, I find the mental images of Derek’s everything a cause for unwanted boners, but to each their own. Besides, I probably should’ve eased you into that anyway.”

“Probably, yeah.”

Scott was still clutching the pillow as if that somehow would shield him from further mental scars. Something dark and slightly spiteful unfurled deep in the pit of Stiles’ stomach and he crossed his arms defiantly.

“You’ve got to admit you owe me. I have much too detailed information about what you got up to with Allison. So many dirty details that not even bleach can erase. This little blunder doesn’t come close to evening the score.”

Scott blushed. “I know. I haven’t over-shared about Kira, though.”

“True,” conceded Stiles. “I think I’d like for that to continue, if that’s okay. I’ll be more than happy to talk about your relationship with her, but let’s skip the physical details. I’ll do same.” He waggled his eyebrows suggestively. “Unless you want to know about dicks and stuff and where to stuff them. You know, for science, or in case you should stumble into a bi-curios phase.”

Scott laughed. “I think I’ll pass, but thanks for the offer.” He paused for a moment, and then nudged him gently with his foot. “You’re happy, though right?”

Stiles nodded, unable to stop his already wide smile spreading further. “I am.” He paused for a moment, weighing the pros and cons of what he was really wondering about. In the end he decided to simply ask outright.  
“Is it weird? The guy thing?”

Scott tilted his head, giving him a look that spoke volumes. “Stiles, you’ve been ranting about your attractiveness to gay guys since sophomore year. It’s hardly an earth-shattering development.”

Stiles shrugged sheepishly. “Yeah, I guess not. The Derek part, though. Is that weird?”

Scott pursed his lips and narrowed his eyes, which Stiles recognized as one of his thinking tics.

“At first, yeah. A bit. But I never got Derek. You always did, though. I see that now. Like I said, if you’re happy, then I’m giving it two thumbs up. I ship it. Sterek, all the way.”

Stiles burst out laughing, almost falling to the floor. “Who are you? _Sterek_? You’ve come up with a ship name? A ship moniker? Dude, I’m deleting your tumblr account.”

“Suck it up,” laughed Scott looking entirely too gleeful for his own good. “Just promise me I won’t witness you fondling Derek’s silky smooth hardness and I’ll be nothing but supportive. Now, what do you say we get a game going or something, before I lose the last shreds of my manliness with all this touchy feeling shit?”

“You’re so on!”

 

***

 

“Seriously?”

Stiles stared at the depressing content of Derek’s fridge with a deep frown.

“Honestly, Derek your fridge closely resembles the landscape of Tatooine. Depressing and bare. In fact, it gives new meaning to the word ‘desolation’.”

He blinked several times in quick succession, praying it would somehow magically reveal a mirage of edible goodness. His efforts were fruitless. Which, coincidentally, Tatooine was as well. He doubted anything could grow there to be honest. Sadly, the only thing growing in the vicinity of Derek’s fridge was Stiles’ hunger and frustration.

“Here I hoped a good orgasm would somehow render you speechless.” Derek sounded amused. “At the very least devoid of sarcasm for a few minutes.”

Stiles bit his lip to avoid laughing. He really shouldn’t give Derek the impression he was funny. Which he was. Very dry-witted and surprisingly adept at puns. It honestly was nice to hear Derek sounding happy, but not even his dazzling thousand watt smiles could help his current predicament. Those smiles could possibly power a small town, but were powerless to feed him. Stiles was sexually sated, but physically his stomach was letting him know, loudly, that it was time for his afternoon feeding. He slammed the door shut and marched back into the living room, pouting.

“You have an all chrome kitchen with appliances professional chefs would be scared of, and yet the fridge is like the inside of Greenberg's head. Mostly empty. Would it kill you to provide the basics? Some cheese, perhaps ham and some OJ? Normal food. I’m just a puny human, I can’t run around the preserve looking for small game and deer.”

“A puny human with magic powers,” corrected Derek matter-of-factly. “Can’t you just will some food into existence? I have a _wand_ you can use if you need one.”

Derek’s raised eyebrow and the minute tilt of his mouth suggested amusement. The slight hip thrust was just unfair and dirty. The whole display only furthered Stiles’ hunger-induced rant.

“Keep those hips on the seat, dude! I won’t be distracted again by that.”

He waved a frantic hand towards Derek’s crouch area. Derek answered with a borderline illegal body roll. Little Stiles approved. Enthusiastically.

“That’s unfair,” he wailed. “I’m suffering from hunger pains. Another round of _that_ and I’ll probably die. So, focus. Food first.”

“Okay,” said Derek, voice soft. “Mi casa est zu casa. Feel free to plunder the kitchen.”

Stiles resisted rolling his eyes. He only marginally succeeded.

“I would,” he pressed out, voice saccharine sweet, “if there was anything worthwhile in there. And we need to talk about the abundance of yogurt. Dude, I swear, that’s all I ever find in that kitchen of yours. I never pictured you as the dairy loving kind in the first place, but if you insist on stocking up on yogurt at least have the decency to buy something with blueberry or some sort of fruit. Vanilla is an unnatural flavor in yogurt and it needs to go.”

“I love vanilla,” said Derek simply, smirking lopsidedly. He was sprawled on the relatively new couch, which they had thoroughly christened the last few weeks, almost to the point where it would be prudent to buy a new one. Aside from the smirk, Derek was wearing boxers and nothing else. If Stiles hadn’t just come violently twice the last hour, he’d probably be halfway to bonerville by now. It was a very nice display.

“I can personally attest to the fact that you’re anything _but_ vanilla,” he mumbled irritably. Derek smiled even wider. That sight still took Stiles’ breath away.

“Is that so?”

Derek patted the space next to him. Stiles happily accepted the invitation, burrowing into the nook of Derek’s arm, draping all available limbs across and around him. Skin contact, it was important.

“Kinky bastard,” he retorted in mock annoyance. Derek replied by kissing him soundly.

“I’ll order a pizza or something if you’re hungry,” offered Derek a few minutes later, voice breathless when they finally and reluctantly separated, solely to avoid asphyxiation. Stiles shook his head.

“No, that’s okay. I need to leave soon anyway. My dad comes off shift in about an hour, and he’ll be expecting dinner. For all her brilliance, Lydia is a disaster when it comes to food prep.”

“How’s her case coming along?” asked Derek, playing with Stiles’ hair. “Will she be able to come out of hiding soon?”

Stiles shuddered. “I sure hope so. As much for my sake as hers. I love her dearly, but the Stilinski household is not large enough to house two geniuses such as us for long periods. I need to regain my sole domain.” He pouted exaggeratively. “She’s like fungus, slowly taking over the house, taking advantage of the fact that much of my time is spent either getting my freak on with you or practicing nonsense with Morrell.”

“Fungus? Really?” Derek yanked Stiles’ hair playfully. “If Lydia hear you call her that, she’ll decimate you.”

“You think I’m exaggerating, but I’m not,” protested Stiles, swatting at Derek’s hand. “Yesterday, I came home to find decorative pillows on our couch. The frilly kind! The week before she upgraded the content of our linen closets to stuff with nothing but 500 thread counts or more. That kind of luxury is wasted on two simpletons like me and my dad. She’s claiming territory, one decorative item at a time!”

“Nice,” murmured Derek. “Was it Egyptian cotton? That stuff is awesome. Perhaps I should go to Home Depot and get some? You wanna come with?”

“Who are you?”

Stiles started at Derek in horror. “You spent the better part of a year living out of an abandoned train depot, nesting in rags and filth. And now you wax poetic about linen?” He shook his head. “Are you sure you’re the real Derek Hale and not the clone?”

As soon as the words had tumbled out his mouth, Stiles knew he’d stepped in it. Royally. Derek didn’t really respond, but his fingers stopped running through Stiles’ hair, and his breath hitched slightly. If he wasn’t tucked into his chest, Stiles probably wouldn’t have noticed. Derek was good at masking his emotions. It was just that Stiles was even better, and knew all the signs.

“I’m sorry,” he said immediately, sitting up in hopes of catching Derek’s eye. The werewolf just shook his head, evading his attempt at eye contact.

“Don’t worry about it,” he replied, voice perfectly neutral, which was a warning sign in itself.

“I most certainly will worry about it!” Stiles threw his hands up, and then slumped back on the couch, wanting nothing more than to beat himself silly. “My brain to mouth filter is malfunctioning as always. I automatically go for the cheap jokes, and this was inappropriate, and I didn’t even mean it. Of course, I don’t think you’re a clone. I know you’re not.”

“How can you be sure?”

Derek sounded endlessly small as he spoke. Young even. Younger than his face and body suggested at any rate. Derek’s birth certificate might place him in his mid-twenties, but emotionally he wasn’t much more mature than Stiles. His tough exterior was a front, a wall Stiles was still picking at to gain full access. Stupid comments like this wasn’t doing him any favors. In fact, these kinds of brain-dead outburst, only served to provide Derek with a fresh batch of cement to rebuild and reinforce.

“I’m one hundred percent certain,” insisted Stiles, grabbing Derek’s hand. “I know it with every fiber of my being. I always felt a bit off around the other you. We didn’t spend much time together, which was perhaps my first clue. Historically, we tend to gravitate towards each other when shit hits the fan. This time, it felt as if you were avoiding me somehow. At the time I didn’t have much chance to reflect on it, but I guess it was always nagging me at the back of my mind.”

“That’s hardly proof at all,” argued Derek weakly. Stiles sighed.

“Perhaps not, but don’t forget that Valack told us the same. Also, the fact that clone you fell into bed with Braeden so easily was very out of character.”

“Now you just sound jealous. Besides, what does that prove exactly?”

“Oh, I was madly jealous, I just didn’t understand it,” admitted Stiles with a lopsided grin. “She always rubbed me the wrong way, I guess. Too cocky for her own good or something like that. Or at least, that’s what I told myself. Anyway, you had just came out of a bad case of darach-whammy with Jennifer, and Kate was still haunting you. Falling into bed with yet another woman with a sketchy past, seemed unlikely, even for you. Clone you wouldn’t necessarily have the same baggage and mental scars, I guess.”

He wormed his way under Derek’s arm again; grinning up at him with what he hoped was a suitably adoring look. “Besides, even if it did turn out you’re a clone, I don’t give a flying fuck.”

Derek was about to protest, but Stiles dived forward placing his hand over his mouth, shaking his head. “No more protests. Besides, you’re canoodling with a possible clone yourself at this very moment, and I don’t hear you complain.”

He waggled his eyebrows mischievously. Derek for his part looked confused, and removed Stiles’ hand without much difficulty.

“What’s that supposed to mean? You’re not back to your time travel theories are you? Because I honestly don’t think we’ll meet up with another version of you by wandering the Dread Doctor corridors again.”

Stiles snorted. “No, silly. I’m talking about the fly-demon that possessed me spewing out a carbon copy of yours truly on Scott’s living room floor before fleeing the premises with Lydia as its hostage.”

Derek looked caught between flabbergast and annoyance. Like he couldn’t decide whether Stiles was full of shit or not.

“What the hell? That sentence made no sense whatsoever.”

“Oh my god,” breathed Stiles, eyes wide. “Didn’t anyone ever fill in all the blanks for you? Or have you purged it from your mind? I don’t blame you, it’s pretty icky.”

When Derek continued to simply stare at Stiles as if he was yapping in some foreign language, it became obvious that he really had no clue about any of this.

“Okay, so short recap: original me, still possessed by the evil fly, barfed up a lump of bandages, and out of that my new and unsliced body literary came out of the woodwork. When it comes to creepy clone processes that definitely beats “bred in a Mexican cave” any day of the week.”

“Our lives are bizarre,” muttered Derek under his breath, curling Stiles against his chest again, like that could somehow undo all the crazy. Stiles appreciated the effort.

“That they are. Utterly bizarre. The sex is good, though.”

“You’re incorrigible,” laughed Derek, cheeks slightly pink.

“That I am. I’m also terrible at segues, so apologies in advance for jumping back to the sensitive topic of clones.”

Derek let out a gruff huff. Stiles plowed on before he lost his nerve.

“I talked with Braeden the other day, and by talked I mean exchanged some long-winded texts, and she still can’t remember anything specific or strange about the way clone Derek disappeared. Not sure I believe her, though,” he added musingly.

Derek started to protest, but Stiles shushed him impatiently.

“I know you’re curious about him. Weirded out, sure. I mean, who wouldn’t be with an identical you possibly traipsing around. I’m extremely curious, obviously. Which means I’m going to poke my nose in it, whether you want me to or not.” He waved his hands around, accidentally hitting Derek on the nose. “Fair warning.”

“I’m not even vaguely surprised,” retorted Derek deadpan. “If Braeden doesn’t know anything, then what do we do?”

“Not sure.” Stiles narrowed his eyes. “Though, I’m not so sure Braeden is telling me everything. She was never a huge fan of yours truly, can you believe it. I wouldn’t put it past her to keep stuff to herself. I’ve asked Malia to poke into as well, but so far she hasn’t come up with anything of interest.”

Derek froze for a split second, the change almost unnoticeable for anyone not paying attention. Stiles’ Derek-radar was getting better by the day, though, and it was a-tingling.

“What’s wrong?” he asked, nudging Derek.  
“Nothing,” replied Derek curtly. Which of course meant that it was something.  
“Dude, you just froze up. What is – oh.”

All of a sudden it all slotted into place. “Oh my god!” He grinned manically, ruffling Derek’s hair. “You’re jealous!”

“No, I’m not!”

“Are too!” Stiles sing-songed. “You froze up at the mention of Malia. That is adorable! And unwarranted. We broke up before she left. We keep in touch and I want to be friends with her if she’ll allow it. Which means I’ll tell her about us the minute she gets back.” He glanced at Derek, holding his gaze. “I’m not breaking the news that I hooked up with her cousin via text. I’m far too classy for that.”

“A real gentleman,” replied Derek sarcastically, but Stiles could tell by the tone of his voice he was actually touched.

“So we’re in agreement then? We’ll poke around trying to find out what happened to the other you?”

Derek nodded stiffly. “Good,” said Stiles with a wide grin, “because I’ve already taken the liberty of getting the process started.” 

He dived for his backpack and fished out a tablet. Derek looked on with mounting dread as he tapped and swiped with gusto.

“Firstly, and don’t be angry,” he added with a raised finger. He plowed on before Derek could make a comment. “I’ve asked my dad to issue and APB on you. Don’t worry though, not here in California, so you won’t be arrested or anything. It’s a long shot, but it might pan out.” Derek looked dubious.  “I’ve also listed all the things Braeden mentioned. Your car was left behind, the same with your phone and clothes. What she didn’t mention though was your wallet and credit cards. Going by the assumption that clone you didn’t just vanish into thin air, but is still out there somewhere, it’s a possibility he’s still in possession of these. If we’re lucky he’s used the credit cards.”

He pinned Derek with a hopeful look, eyebrows almost disappearing into his messier than usual fringe.

“You should check your bank statements, dude. See if any of your cards have been used lately.”

Derek pursed his lips, eyebrows knitted together. “That might be difficult,” he admitted through clenched teeth. “I kind of lost access to my accounts.”

Stiles flailed. “What the frick? How? Why?”

“Clone D,” Derek replied with ill-concealed annoyance. “He must have visited the bank at some point and has changed all my passwords and safety statements. I went there last week when I couldn’t access my accounts online and a very terse bank manager explained to me that unless I could provide valid ID that I’m who I say I am, they won’t give me access. I had my wallet on me when Kate kidnapped me, IDs and all. The rest is presumably in my clone’s possession.”

“What about passport?” asked Stiles. Derek shook his head again.

“Never got one. And my birth certificate went down in flames with the rest of my family. I’ve sent in a request to get a new one, but bureaucracy is a bitch.”  
“I’ll get my dad to vouch for you or something.”

Out of all the things that could hinder his carefully mapped out plan of investigation, red tape and lost IDs had not factored in.

“Not sure that will suffice,” said Derek glumly. “Judging by the bank manager’s tone not even a personal assurance from Barack Obama would appease him.”

They lapsed into silence, only occasionally interrupted by Derek’s low grumbles and Stiles’ stomach protesting the lack of nutrition. Eventually Stiles reluctantly untangled from Derek to pick up his phone. He let out a disappointed groan and let one hand run down his face.

“What’s wrong? Do you need to leave?” asked Derek. Stiles shook his head.

“No. I mean yes. Yes I need to go, but that wasn’t why I groaned. Shit - that came out wrong.” He whirled around, eyes panicked. “Honestly, I’d rather stay here with you then go home, you know that right?”

Derek snickered. “I had an inkling,” he said, smirking confidently. “So, what’s with the groans of doom?”

Stiles shrugged, shoulders slumping. “It’s Scott,” he admitted, voice low. “I’m worried about him.”

“We all are,” said Derek softly. “That was a blow to the gut. He just needs time. He’ll bounce back, don’t you worry.”

“But I do worry, Derek! I worry a lot. It’s like, my base setting. If something shitty goes down, it usually has repercussions. He’s just so very un-Scott-like at the moment, I’m having trouble recognizing him.”

Derek leaned forward and laid a comforting hand on Stiles’ lower back. “I thought it went well the other night? Didn’t you end up playing Mario Kart half the night?”  
“Yeah,” mumbled Stiles.  
“Sounds pretty normal to me,” offered Derek.

Stiles shrugged again, biting his lower lip. There was one thing nagging at him more than anything these days. Something he’d not breathed a word about to anyone, mostly out of old habit and hope that his patented method of coping would pan out for once. That if he just ignored it, it would go away. So far it wasn’t working.

“I’ve got to tell you something,” he blurted hurriedly before he could talk himself out of it. He noticed Derek sit up tensely.  
“What?” he asked, voice laced with apprehension. Stiles regretted his words already. It was probably nothing and he’d end up worrying Derek for no reason. But it was too late now. Derek wouldn’t rest until he’d divulged.

“I saw something,” mumbled Stiles. “That night at the mall. Something that has been bothering me ever since. It’s probably nothing. I hope it’s nothing. I’d pray for it to be nothing if I thought that would do a lick of good.”

“Now you’re scaring me.”

Derek had moved closer, and had grabbed Stiles’ hand, squeezing it reassuringly.

“I’ve been scaring myself thinking about this for weeks,” admitted Stiles with a weak smile. “Running worst case scenarios in my head, preparing for -”  
He trailed off.

“Preparing for what? Come on, Stiles. Talk to me. A burden shared and all that. Don’t carry everything around alone. Trust me, that shit don’t work in the long run.”  
“I know,” whispered Stiles.  
“So tell me. Preparing for what?”  
“Some sort of possession, I guess,” he finally admitted. Beside him Derek tensed.  
“Stiles,” he began insistently. “You can’t possibly think you’re -”

“No!” He shook his head frantically. “Not me. Not this time. I’m worried about Scott. His eyes -”

Stiles paused, closed his eyes and traveled back to the moments after the confrontation with the beast. A beast born out of Allison’s dead body, and a beast Scott had touched. Been engulfed by.

“Derek, his eyes turned black. Everything, whites and all. Pitch black, demonish if you will. It looked like some sort of smoke curled in them, just like the beast, you know.”  
“Scott’s _eyes_?” Derek sounded shell-shocked. Stiles nodded.  
“Yeah. Right after the beast was defeated. It was just for a split second though. And no, I haven’t seen it again since. It might’ve been a trick of the light, I know that too. It’s just - “ He paused for a moment and sighed deeply. “He’s been acting odd lately. Spacing out. Ignoring texts, skipping class. Kira is worried. I am worried. His mom is worried. I can’t help but wonder if it’s related.”

They lapsed into another silence. Derek continued to rub his back and squeeze his hand. Stiles’ stomach rumbled again.

“I need to go.” Stiles reluctantly rose, feeling naked and cold without Derek plastered to his body. “My continued existence relies on it. Both in terms of sustenance and not pissing off my father, the sheriff.”

“We’ll figure it out,” said Derek firmly. “If there’s anything wrong with Scott aside from shock and grief, we’ll figure it out.”

When Stiles didn’t offer any comment, Derek simply pulled him close and hugged him. It didn’t help with his worry for Scott, but it was nice sharing it with someone.

 

***

 

The next day Stiles was accosted the second he left his Physics class.

“Stiles!”

A blur of red barged into him, and it took a few seconds to realize it was Kira and not The Flash, which would’ve been awesome and a welcome reprieve from the normal craziness. Kira’s eyes glowed faintly orange, which was never a good sign. All fantasies of superheroes vanished quickly.

“What the hell?” he cried out, limbs flying in all directions, the same with his books. He did a valid yet uncoordinated attempt to catch them midair and only succeeded with his his History textbook. If it hovered a few feet above the floor before he snatched it up that was nobody’s business. No one seemed to notice anyway, and certainly not Kira. She looked, for lack of a better word, distraught.

“Sorry! I’m sorry,” she wailed, tone distressed. She scampered to the floor and began gathering the rest of Stiles’ notes that would probably take the better part of an hour to sort through and put back in order. Oh well, it wasn’t as if he didn’t have anything else to do.

“It’s okay,” he assured, bending down to help her. “What’s the matter? You sound upset.”

Kira produced a pathetic whimper. Not for the first time Stiles missed Lydia’s presence at school with every fiber of his being, and not just for her supreme note-taking skills. He had a feeling Kira’s crisis involved Scott, feelings and possibly tears. Even Malia would be welcome, even if she did tend to be a tad too blunt, and seldom made matters better. Still it was another person to help share the burden.

“I can’t find Scott!”

Prediction confirmed Stiles took a step back, feeling his own heartbeat speed up.

“What do you mean you can’t find him? Since when?”

“Since yesterday.” Kira sounded wrecked. “I haven’t seen him since school ended yesterday. He said he was going to call me but he never did. I tried calling and texting all night, but he never returned any of them. Now he’s not at school. At least he wasn’t in AP Biology and he has to be there, otherwise the teacher is likely to flunk him given his tardiness lately. She took him back after he dropped out, but under the expressed rule he shows for all the classes. Stiles, I have a bad feeling about this!”

She grabbed onto his arm and squeezed. Stiles grimaced. Kitsunes were stronger than they looked.

“Please, tell me you’ve seen him today?” begged Kira, ignorant of Stiles’ distress. He plied her fingers away with difficulty, massaging his arm with a grimace.

“I haven’t,” he admitted. “We don’t have any classes together today. We usually don’t meet up until lunch. Have you checked the cafeteria?”

Kira nodded, braids whipping about her face like cat-o'-nine-tails.

“Four times! I’ve got his class schedule and I’ve checked all the classrooms and his locker. I’ve tried calling and texting again, but no luck. I’m getting worried, Stiles!”

She wasn’t the only one. They’d had a good night recently with video games and lasagna, but there was no escaping the fact Scott was heavily affected by the encounter with the beast hiding out in Allison’s dead body. As he should be. Even Stiles sometimes woke in the middle of the night, drenched in sweat, echoes of nightmares from that encounter bouncing off his consciousness. He could only imagine what Scott might be suffering through given his and Allison’s history.

“Have you talked to his mom?”

Kira shook her head. “No. I didn’t want to alarm her in case it turned out I was just being hysterical again. I wanted to check with you first.”

Stiles chewed on his lower lip, weighing the pros and cons of involving Melissa at this stage. In the end, he dialed the number and prayed he wouldn’t regret it.

“Stiles.”

Melissa’s voice was coated in suspicion lined with a dash of worry.

“Hey,” he replied merrily, cringing when he heard how false it rang even to his own ears. The sigh from the other end told him he wasn’t fooling her either.

“What’s the matter? Is it Scott? Did something happen?”

“We don’t know,” answered Stiles honestly. “Kira hasn’t seen him all day, and neither have I. She’s been trying to call and text him since last night, but he never answered. We were just wondering if you’d seen him, or if he might be home sick or whatnot.”

A string of what Stiles recognized as rather colorful Spanish cursing trickled down the line.

“Eh, so that’s no on Scott being down with the flu, then?” he ventured, heart sinking. “Not that werewolves get sick in the first place, so I guess that was a long shot.”

“If he’s skipping school again, I’m going to whup his ass,” grumbled Melissa. It sounded as if she was in the car. Stiles hoped to God his call wouldn’t result in an accident. “He was doing so good before all this nonsense with the Dread Doctors, and once again his academic future is derailed because of Allison Argent. God bless her soul, the poor girl isn’t to blame of course, it’s just –“.

She paused for a moment. Stiles heard a car horn wailing.  
“God damned traffic,” she hissed. “I’ve pulled into a parking lot. Just hold on a sec, I’m going to put you on speaker.” Stiles yelped when Kira pulled on his arm again, clearly anxious for an update. He waved her off, just as Melissa came back on.

“Okay, I have no clue where Scott is now. He was up and dressed for school when I left for work earlier today, and he seemed fine. I don’t know why he didn’t get back to Kira last night. I was in bed when he got in. He was working overtime at Deaton’s. Apparently, they have quite the backlog since he’s been in a wind for a while, and the temporary vet relies on Scott a lot since he knows the clinic and a lot of the clients.”

“Okay,” sighed Stiles in relief. “I guess he’ll turn up soon enough. Probably just tired or something, perhaps he fell asleep in the boiler room. Sorry to have bothered you.”

“Oh, Scott will be the one sorry when I get a hold of him, belief you me.” Melissa’s voice had dropped several octaves, something that Stiles knew from experience meant trouble. “Thank you for bringing his truancy to my attention.”

“Crap.”

The last thing Stiles wanted was to land Scott in trouble and risk the paper-thin foundation they’d reestablished crumbling away again.

“You say crap, I say thanks,” quipped Melissa. “Give my best to Kira and tell her I’m sorry for my son’s lackluster communication skills. He definitely takes after his dad in that regards. Not a word in weeks,” she mumbled bitterly.

With that she hung up. Stiles hardly had time to lower the phone before Kira was on him again, nails boring into his skin.

“What did she say?”

“Ouch! Kira, for the love of God, please stop mauling my arm. Puny human here!”

She released the grip immediately, cheeks coloring and instead began wringing her hands together nervously while she hopped from one foot to the other.

“Sorry,” she mumbled, eyes pleading. “I didn’t mean to hurt you. I’m just – What did she say?”

Stiles hurriedly recapped the short conversation. Kira went from elated relief to confusion as the story unfolded.

“He’s not asleep in the boiler room. I don’t know why you said that. No one sleeps in the boiler room. Besides, I’ve checked.” She shuddered. “And I vehemently regret it. Greenberg was there, and he wasn’t alone. He also wasn’t wearing a shirt.”

Stiles cringed. Yeah, that was bound to leave a mental scar. He patted Kira’s back awkwardly.

“Forget about the boiler room, I just said that hoping not to scare Melissa too much. We do know Scott was at his house this morning. Have you checked the parking lot? Is his bike there?”

Kira looked like she wanted to slap herself. Without another word they turned on their heels and sprinted for the door. They found the bike parked outside, Scott’s helmet hanging from the handlebars.

“At least he arrived here at some point. Chances are he’s still here.”

Stiles squinted towards the massive school building trying to somehow divine where Scott might be hiding. He got nothing. No vision, no inkling, no grand notion.

“Wish I could just scent him,” Kira mumbled darkly as they reentered the school. Students were roaming the halls taking advantage of the lunch period. Stiles spotted a mop of dark hair in his peripheral vision and whipped around only to catch the eye of Theo Raeken giving him a smirk and a curt nod. It was obvious he had eavesdropped on their conversation. There was no disguising the open invitation in his arched eyebrows. Stiles flipped him off and turned back to Kira. He wouldn’t call on Theo for help even if he was the last werewolf hybrid on the planet. He’d conspired and worked with the Dread Doctors, and that wasn’t the sort of thing you just forgot or forgave in a couple of weeks. Or ever.

Sadly, Theo hadn’t gotten that memo. Or he was just deliberately obtuse. The last time Stiles laid eyes on him Scott had thrown him from a moving vehicle. You’d think that sort of thing might have hammered the message of ‘not welcome’ away.

“Hello,” said Theo sweetly, giving them a wide smile. “I couldn’t help but overhear that you’re in a bit of a pickle.”

“- what a surprise,” muttered Stiles under his breath. Theo ploughed on without so much batting an eyelid.

“You seemed to have misplaced McCall. What a pity.” He folded his lips into a simpering pout that frankly wouldn’t fool blind men. “I guess you need help tracking him down, am I right?”  
“Nope, not right. In fact, you’re wrong. Everything about you. So very wrong. Also, unwelcome. So, shoo.”

Stiles grabbed Kira’s arm for once and made to leave. Theo was surprisingly fast and as always too smug for his own good. He blocked their way and continued talking as if he hadn’t just been dismissed and rejected.

“I heard you mention the boiler room. I can’t think why you’d think Scott would be waiting for you there, Stiles. Isn’t that the notorious makeup spot around school? I knew you two were close, but not that close.”

He cocked his head and took the time to look Stiles over from top to toe.

“Then again, I hear you’re gay now, Stiles. I’ve heard of gay pride, but never gay _plaid_. I guess that’s why I never picked up on it.”  
He patted Stiles’ green, white and blue plaid shirt and flicked away an invisible piece of lint.

“ _Bi_ ,” said Stiles through gritted teeth. “Bi, Theo. Get your labels right.”  
He plucked Theo’s hand off his shoulder, feeling a rush like a current well up inside him. Before he knew it, waves of electricity flowed out of him, shocking Theo. His eyes flashed neon yellow before he fell to the floor in a flurry of spasms.

“Also, _bye_ Theo.”

Stiles strode down the corridor, seething. Kira ran after him, her combat boots clattering loudly with each step. Theo’s curses became fainter with each step.

“That was _awesome_!” she trilled.  
“That was stupid,” counted Stiles, silently berating himself. “That was also uncontrolled and unintended. I’m still letting my emotions guide me. Progress thy name is definitely not Stiles.”  
“You can work on that, though? Right?”

Stiles was gritting his teeth so hard, he could feel the enamel on his teeth cracking. He could still feel the currents of powers tingling in his hands, threatening to burst out again unless he could reign it in.

“Theoretically, yes,” he admitted. “In reality, I’m not doing so good. Terrible even. Don’t worry about that now. Let’s concentrate on finding Scott, alright.”

Kira nodded enthusiastically. “How?”

Stiles simply grinned and took the stairs up to the second floor two at the time.

 

*

  
“I’m not really too good at this yet.”

Liam stared dubiously at the green shirt Stiles had produced. He’d found it in Scott’s locker, using the only magical ability he seemed to master at will, namely unlocking doors. Liam for his part was also having a crisis of ability. Stiles could relate, but sadly he didn’t have time to play Dr. Phil to the kid.

“You’ll do great,” he said with a grin that was perhaps a tad too wide to be completely convincing. “Just take a great whiff of Eau de Scott and get sniffing.”

Liam did as asked, though his eyes betrayed his doubt. Mason stood behind him, bouncing on his heels with excitement.

“Did you get it? Do you have his scent?”

Kira was hanging over Liam’s other shoulder, clearly not helping his concentration in the slightest. Stiles calmly steered the pair of them away.

“Let the guy get some room to breathe. Literally.”

Liam scrunched up his face, nose sticking up in the air. A gang of sophomore girls started at him in astonishment before breaking out into ill-concealed guffaws.

“This is useless,” he complained, shoulders slumping. “There are too many scents, I can’t separate them, at least not enough to isolate Scott’s.”

“Come on, Liam,” coaxed Stiles encouragingly. “You did a great job following Theo that time in the woods, remember?”

Liam simply stared at him, looking 1000 % done.

“We were the only people around for miles, picking up a scent was hardly difficult. These corridors are befuddled by odors of hundreds of teens with varying degree of respect for personal hygiene. It’s not exactly comparable.”

“Hogwash.” Stiles waved off all of Liam’s protestations and guided him down the hallway. “You’re a young strapping teen with a nose of legends. Surely, you can find the pungent smell of your sire?”

“Why do you talk like that?” Liam shared a confused look with Mason. “Why does he sound like he’s narrating Lord of the Rings. Is he implying I’m a hobbit?” He whirled around, brandishing a clawed finger in Stiles’ face. “I’m not a hobbit, Stiles! I’m not that short!”

Stiles held up his hands in defeat, then gently pushed Liam’s finger away from his nose. “Sorry, just trying to boost morale. Also, tuck away the claws, okay.”

Liam mumbled something under his breath but at least continued to sniff down the corridor, past the trophy cases and straight past the Biology classroom.  
Nothing.

It went on like that for most of their lunch break. Liam would sometimes perk up and pick up pace, only to lose momentum a while later, usually at the intersections between hallways.

“Eh, guys, I think we’ve been down this corridor before.”

Mason’s gleeful glint had dimmed somewhat. He was leaning against a locker adorned in 'I love puppies' stickers. “This just isn’t the kind of locker you forget,” he added dryly. Stiles had to agree.

“Crap, lunch is almost over as well. Please tell me you’ve got a free period coming up, Liam?”

The younger werewolf shook his head. “Sorry, chemistry with Mrs. Leery. She’s a ballbuster, I can’t skip that one.”

Kira was tapping furiously at her phone again, probably in another attempt to reach Scott.

“I get it. Just go, we’ll continue looking. I’ll let you know when we find him.”

Liam nodded somewhat reluctantly. Mason tugged on his arm as the first bell sounded. They were halfway down the corridor when Liam spun around, yelling.

“It’s probably a long shot, but you should check the locker room. That’s where I saw him last.”

Stiles’ eyes bugged. “What? _Today_?”

Liam nodded. “Yeah, for extra lacrosse practice. First string only. I thought you were skipping.”

Stiles grimaced. “Wasn’t invited. Nice to know. I guess I’m demoted. Anyway, we’ll check it out.”

“Could explain why we can’t find him,” supplied Mason. “That place stinks to high heaven, even for my useless human nose.”

“We’ll check it – Ouch!”

Stiles didn’t have time to finish the sentence. Kira was dragging him bodily towards the locker rooms. Kitsunes – definitely much stronger than they looked.

 

*

  
“Scott?”

His voice echoed off the tiled walls, sounding tinny and small. “Are you there, buddy?”

No reply. Next to him Kira was making retching noises.

“Mason wasn’t kidding,” she wheezed, clutching her nose. “This place smells like feet, armpits and sperm.”

“ _Kira_!” yelled Stiles scandalous, staring at the petite girl in near horror.

“What?” she asked perplexed. “Was there something wrong with that summary?”

Oh god, she had her hands on her hips! All that was missing was a hip tilt – and yes, there it was. It was the classic warning sign of a girl about to be pissed.

“Nope,” he admitted through clenched teeth, ears slightly red. “Very accurate. Moving on!”

He forged into the room, heading straight for Scott’s assigned locker. The bench was empty.

“Damn!”

Kira returned the sentiment. They spent a minute checking the showers and stalls just to be safe, but no Scott in sight.

“We can get Derek to help track him after school,” suggested Stiles in a lame attempt to appease Kira’s mounting distress. She nodded minutely as Stiles steered her towards the door. On their way they walked past Coach’s office. More out of habit than anything, Stiles glanced through the window in the door. It had become sort of a sport throughout the years, cataloging what nonsense coach got up to when he thought no one was looking. Hula hooping still reigned at the top. Seeing Bobby Finstock attempt the Oopsie Doodle – let’s just say it could never be unseen.  This time however Coach was nowhere in sight. The office was not empty, though. Not at all.

“Stiles, eh - what are you doing?”

Kira stared dumbfounded as Stiles waved his arm in a “wax on, wax off” sort of gesture in front of the door. It opened smoothly, revealing Scott sitting stiffly in Finstock’s office chair. He didn’t even flinch or react as Kira and Stiles burst through the door in a lump of limbs.

“Scott!”

Kira all but fell into Scott’s lap, throwing her arms around his neck and clinging to him like panda hugged trees. It was almost funny watching Scott’s delayed reaction, sort of like he was underwater or drugged. Only it wasn’t. Funny that is. One look at him and it was clear as day he was not alright. Not even close.

“Hey, man,” Stiles patted Scott reassuringly on the shoulder, giving him a soft smile. Somehow, he just knew berating him wouldn’t do any good. Besides, he’d leave that part to Melissa. “How’re you doing?”

Scott shrugged, then tried to move to get a better grip on Kira who looked like she was refusing to let go. He only succeeded in almost toppling out of Coach’s wheeled desk chair. Stiles caught it just in time, and steered it safely against the wall.

“What time is it?”  Scott’s voice was low and raspy.

“Lunch is just over. Have you been holed up here since early practice? Dude, if so no wonder you’re a bit loopy.”

Scott gave another shrug. “I guess,” he mumbled, not really meeting Stiles’ eyes. “It’s all a bit hazy.” He sighed. “I’ve just been feeling really drained and apathetic lately. I know what I have to do, and still I can’t seem to get myself to follow through. After practice I just felt really tired, so I stayed for an extra long shower.” Scott glanced around the room as if he couldn’t really believe he was still there. “I guess I must have dozed off or something?”

He met Stiles’ eyes, look pleading. “What’s wrong with me, Stiles?”

Yeah, how did you answer something like that? Werewolves were blessed with perks like fast healing and enhanced senses and strength, but somehow Stiles didn’t think that applied to mental afflictions. Trauma, grief and depression – that were the kind of wounds not even the werewolf DNA could fix in a hurry, Derek being a case in point.

“I don’t think there’s anything wrong with you,” began Stiles, plopping down on coach’s desk opposite Scott. “I think maybe the events of the last few years finally caught up with you. Seeing Allison again like that –“ He shook his head, as if trying to shake the mental images. “I think that might’ve brought issues to the surface. Things you haven’t had time to process because one crisis has usually been overlapped by two new ones.”

“What are you saying?” Scott sounded small. Stiles ached for him.

“I think you might be a bit depressed. I – I sort of recognize the symptoms from when I lost my mom. The hopelessness, spacing out, wanting to do stuff but not having the energy to do anything about it. Very common. You not only lost someone you loved, you lost her in a horrific way. You witnessed it and on some level you probably also feel guilt over it.”

They lapsed into silence after that. Kira was still clinging to Scott. It occurred to Stiles that this was probably very hard for her as well, watching her boyfriend go through something like this because of his ex-girlfriend. He hoped Lydia was talking to Kira about that. He wasn’t sure he’d be the best person to help her.  It took a while for Stiles to notice that Scott was crying. Silent tears running down his cheeks, dripping down on his dark green Henley.

“Oh, Scott,” he whispered heartbroken, doing the only thing he could do at the moment namely just be there for his friend. Hard as it was watching Scott struggle with this, Stiles couldn’t help but feel a bit relieved. Grief was normal. Depression could be overcome. It didn’t erase his worry for Scott, far from it. But perhaps they could at the very least rule out supernatural possession. 

After a while sounds started to trickle down the corridor, growing stronger.

“The track team is coming. Come on,” said Stiles, guiding Scott up from the bench and towards the door leading to the lacrosse field.

“Let’s get you home.”

Scott followed without protest, Kira clutched to him like a loving leech. Hopefully she could help draw out the bad stuff. Stiles vowed to do his part to help her any way he could. His gut feeling told him they were in for a bumpy ride, but it was  a ride he was willing to stay on for as long as it took. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The hoola hooping and Coach doing the Oopsie Doodle is heavily inspired by events in an episode of Brooklyn 9-9.


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A short interlude from Malia's POV.

The SUV smelled like fake pine needles, stinky feet and stale Doritos. For someone with a finely tuned nose and sharp sense of smell it was straight up nauseating. Malia’s nose was about as good as they got, which was very bad news when you had a three-hour drive to look forward to. 

They were cruising down a seemingly endless highway with nothing interesting to keep her occupied. The landscape was dull, and the radio station Braeden had chosen played music Malia found anything but melodious. She was pretty sure it was what Stiles called rap, and he was right. It did make you want to rap your head against the nearest solid surface. It didn’t exactly help the situation that the driver in question appeared to have taken a vow of silence. Combined with mounting nausea Malia was edging towards a breakdown. 

She pushed the button to open a window, desperate for some fresh air, only to find it unresponsive. Hammering away at it didn’t help matters. The window stayed firmly shut. 

“Seriously?” 

She flipped her hair with a force that would make Lydia clap, capping it off with a quelling glare. Braeden seemed perfectly unaffected, staring firmly on the road as if she was alone in the car. Malia fought the urge to grab the wheel, but quickly dismissed the notion. Braeden had allowed her behind the wheel a grand total of once ever since this horrid road trip began, and it had barely lasted a quarter mile before Braeden called for a veto, categorizing Malia’s driving as ' _a health hazard_.' She could concede driving wasn’t her strongest suit, but locking the windows? That was taking precautions a bit too far. Not to mention condescending as hell.

“You’ve activated the kids’ safety settings? What the fuck? Do you think I’ll climb out? Fall out? Stick my head out the window like a dog?”

Braeden’s eye roll was all the answer she needed. Not that it surprised her. The last couple of weeks the atmosphere had grown more and more awkward and borderline uneasy. Traveling with the former US Marshall had been good for about three days. The open road, someone to discuss revenge plans with - it had felt freeing and awesome in a way Malia hadn’t really experienced since her time in the Preserve. 

That had quickly changed when she’d stupidly brought up the topic of clone Derek. Stiles had caught her up on the events back home, and she’d been curious. Braeden had clammed up like a shy oyster, and the mood had turned decidedly sour since. Not even Malia’s untrained social skills could ignore that. It was as if the reappearance of normal Derek had triggered something in her for whatever reason, and the change was not exactly for the better.

Where they before would pour over maps together, mapping out their routes, Braeden would now leave Malia alone in motel rooms while she went off god knows where alone. She’d come back with papers and books, and curl up in bed studying it all, all the while making damned sure Malia didn’t get a peek at it. 

Frankly, Malia wasn’t sure there was a connection to Derek at all. Not any logical ones at any rate, but the events did line up, and it was the only possible explanation she had. Sure, they still moved from county to county, state to state looking for the Desert Wolf, but it was becoming more and more clear that Braeden’s heart wasn’t really in it. 

To summarize she was at her wits end, and the novelty of it all was wearing off fast. Besides, there were no new viable leads on the Desert Wolf to pursue. At least nothing Braeden would let her in on. With each passing day, the question resonating in Malia’s head became more and more insistent: 

_What was she even doing here?_

“I need some fresh air.” 

Malia tried not to sound threatening but it was a lost cause. She was desperate. One more minute of this putrid smell and she’d barf all over Braeden’s priced leather seats. That would at least get her to pull over. 

“Please, roll down the window.”

Braeden answered by fiddling with the AC. “There, I cranked it up a notch. Happy?”

Malia grit her teeth in a way no sane dentist would approve of. 

“Not even close. The temperature is not the issue. The car stinks, something I guess your human nose can’t pick up on. So, would you be so kind as to let me have some fresh air? In return I promise not to throw up.”

“Now that’s a bargain worthy of a scary coyote,” mocked Braeden. Still, she did as asked. Malia tipped an imaginary hat in her direction with all the sarcasm glower she could muster, which was surprisingly much. Another gift from quantity time spent with Stiles Stilinski. 

“Where are we heading,” she asked a few minutes later when the car was satisfyingly aired out.

“South.” 

She might as well have said something in Swahili for all it told her. Malia bitterly contemplated adding another scar to her neckline.  
“Destination?” she asked probingly. Braeden shrugged, but didn’t reply. 

“Awesome,” muttered Malia, demonstratively putting her muddy sneakers on the dash. Braeden hated that. 

“Know that I’ll be boarding the first bus back to Beacon Hills the minute we arrive wherever you’re going. I’ve had enough. You’ve got no leads on the Desert Wolf, you don’t involve me, you hardly talk to me. This partnership is a joke.”

“Save your bus money.” 

Braeden’s tone was clipped and terse. “We’re heading back there soon enough. We just need to pick up something first.”

This was the first piece of good news Malia had gotten in weeks. It surprised her, though. Braeden didn’t strike her as the sort that just gave up on a vendetta. Clearly she was missing something. 

“Like what? What are we picking up?”

Braeden’s upper lip curled slightly. It might be a sneer or a smile, Malia wasn’t sure. Which spoke volumes of how seldom her traveling companion cracked a smile. No matter, she hadn’t expected a straight answer anyway. A tight grimace was usually the only thing Braeden would share. Which was of course why the next few words shook her in more ways than one. 

“Deaton. We’re picking up Alan Deaton.”


	6. Chapter 6

  
“So,” said Stiles, swinging his arms around nervously. “Is it just me, or does this feel eerily like a clandestine meet-up to, I dunno, plot mutiny?”

“Honestly Stiles, we’re not planning to overthrow Scott and high-jack his pack. Relax, will you.”

Lydia was perched at the head of the dining room table, a spot she’d wordlessly claimed as hers the minute she took up temporary residence at the Stilinski house. She was stirring her coffee and exuding the same kind of calm power as Lady Crawley of Downtown Abbey. Stiles was midway through season four and secretly worshiping Maggie Smith. He sensed a pattern in his taste in women. Strong, capable and scary as fuck.

“Lydia’s right. No mutiny. Just _unity_. A united front to help Scott.”

It was Melissa who’d spoken. She looked worn and tired. Stiles’ dad walked up and wordlessly handed her a cup of steaming tea and a cookie. She latched onto both gratefully before she continued talking.

“I’ve asked you all here because I’m worried about Scott. We’ve all noticed that he’s been down lately. That in itself isn’t really all that worrying. In fact, I’d say it’s normal. Healthy even, to mourn. However, there seems to be more to it. He’s spacing out, losing time and acting almost apathetic.”

She drew a deep breath, as if fighting back tears.

“I hate to see him like this, and I want to help him. The problem is I don’t know how. Helping someone battle depression can be challenging in itself. Sadly, for us, there are possible added ramifications to consider. Unlike most teenagers Scott’s also saddled with extracurricular responsibilities as alpha.”

The congregation fell into silence. For a short minute all that was heard was the sounds of a coffee pot being passed around and the ticking of the kitchen clock. Had it always been that loud?

“I think you know what I’m getting at,” continued Melissa when no one said anything. “Scott is clearly suffering and my heart bleeds for him. That in turn affects his duties and his responsibility as head of the pack.”

Stiles glanced around the room. Those words hit hard.

Kira was also there, huddled in a corner looking forlorn. She was biting her lip nervously, one of the new decorative pillows Lydia had ordered online clutched in her lap. Directly opposite Lydia sat Ms. Morrell, hands carefully folded on top of the table, face unreadable and serene. Stiles squirmed slightly, feeling his blood rush a bit faster. He didn’t have a new session with Morrell scheduled for a couple of days, but seeing her was a painful reminder of how utterly unsuccessful he’d been at the task she’d set him. The jar with the mysterious liquid still stood unchanged on the kitchen table, mocking him every time he entered the room.

Stiles clenched his fists and the light flickered. No one seemed to notice besides Lydia who arched an eyebrow, and Ms. Morrell who glanced suddenly in his direction. Stiles did a complicated body twist to avoid her gaze and collided ungracefully into Derek. As always, he caught him expertly.

“Sorry,” he muttered, ears burning red.

“You alright?” murmured Derek. Stiles shrugged, avoiding the question. He wasn’t alright. Not really. But compared to the matter at hand, he didn’t exactly have cause to complain. His default reply of “I’m fine” didn’t really fly with a lie-detecting boyfriend. Which meant it was better to just keep his mouth shut.

The light flickered again, once again pulsating perfectly synchronized with his traitorous heartbeat . Even his dad took notice, eyebrow arched high.

Damn.

He needed to get his feelings under control. Now!

“Hey,” whispered Derek, taking one of Stiles’ hands that were still sort of twitching nervously. He squeezed it softly, rubbing a finger over his pulse point. The effect was instantaneous and the lights stopped flickering.  
“Better?”

Stiles nodded. Derek smiled softly, eyes crinkling the way they only did when he as smiling. Really smiling. He continued to hold on to Stiles’ hand as he steered him towards the dining room table and the two vacant chairs. His dad glanced at their clasped hands, but didn’t comment. He was probably just glad their fingers were touching, and not their dicks.

“So.”

All heads turned towards Morrell. She gave a curt little nod. Stiles idly wondered who’d handed her the gavel and made her team leader. Probably self-appointed, he concluded with a low harrumph. His dad shot him a glare through narrow eyes. Stiles all of a sudden felt six years old, being berated for running screaming through the town library.

“When would you say this change in his behavior started?”

Morrell commandeered their attention again. No one seemed inclined to start. For a few torturous moments, no one said a word, simply exchanging glances, waiting for someone to take the lead. After a while Stiles became painfully aware most of their gazes had stopped with him.

Awesome.

Well, fuck it. Someone had to get this show on the road.

“Definitely after the confrontation with the beast,” he began, getting nods of agreement from all parties in the room. “The Dread Doctors called it “La Bete”. It needed a host, and they tried to create a vessel for it. You probably know all this already?”

Morrell simply inclined her head slightly, but didn’t say anything. Stiles took that to mean she wanted him to go on.

“Okay, so the chimeras were all part of their trials, but none of them turned out quite right for the job I guess. Just ended up traumatizing most of the town, but hey, what’s a few extra casualties anyways?”

“Stiles,” sighed the sheriff tiredly. “I know you harbor little love for most of the chimeras still left alive, but this isn’t the fora for that discussion, alright? Table it please.”

“I have nothing against Hayden, and Corey seems alright. It’s Theo Raeken that should be locked up. Or flogged. Publically.”

He fell abruptly silent when his dad jingled his handcuffs. Stiles mimicked zipping his mouth with much ado. Derek took over the explanation, still squeezing his hand and failing to suppress a slight curl of his lips.

“When it had turned, La Bete was just this mass of shadows and smoke with glowing eyes. We couldn’t see who the teenager underneath was at first. Scott seemed to pick up on something though, a familiarity or whatnot, the first time we encountered it,” said Derek, looking to Stiles as if checking that he wasn’t missing something. Stiles took the opportunity to wink encouragingly. Across the table his dad groaned. Stiles flipped him off, probably not all that subtly as Derek continued his recounting. “It wasn’t until we encountered it at the abandoned mall that it was revealed who the vessel was.”

“Allison.”

Kira had taken over the storytelling baton, voice surprisingly strong.

“It blew all our minds when we realized the Doctors and Valack had used Allison’s dead body as host. Worse yet Gerard had been in on it. We were all gobsmacked of course, but we were forced to fight. The Doctors were attacking, Valack was ranting and raving. Scott on the other hand…”

She trailed off. No one said anything, waiting to see if she would continue.

“He kind of just froze,” she eventually admitted, wiping away the tears streaming down her face. “It was pandemonium. The rest of us were fighting for our lives, but Scott – it was as if he only had eyes for her. Like he didn’t see the monster; didn’t realize or didn’t want to entertain the thought that she was still dead.”

She fell silent, her body shaking slightly with silent sobs. Stiles took pity on her, and unlocked his metaphorical zipped mouth.

“He’s been different ever since. He seems – depressed, I guess. He spaces out, he’s not concentrating. His schoolwork is suffering. Coach Finstock is threatening to strip him of his captain’s title. In fact, the only thing he does seem to manage is working at the Vet’s. The rest is going downhill fast.”

Before his inner eye Stiles recalled a blink-and-you’ll-miss-it moment of Scott’s eyes, almost black, tendrils of smoke curling. He still wasn’t sure if that had been real or a trick of the light. It was still nagging him, but mentioning might do more harm than good the way the situation was right now. He was constantly on the lookout for another glimpse of it.  
He glanced sideway at Derek to gauge his reaction. He was the only one he’d told so far. Derek simply squeezed his hand again. Stiles took that to mean he would follow his lead, whatever Stiles decided.

Melissa’s voice brought him back to the present conversation, delaying his decision.

“I’m at my wits end,” she admitted, voice hitching. “I’ve noticed he doesn’t sleep much either. I work late shifts a few times a week, and when I get back in the middle of the night, I sometimes find him just sitting in a chair, staring aimlessly out the window. His appetite is nonexistent. He hardly talks to me, and I know he ignores his phone, doesn’t return calls or texts. It’s like he’s checked out. Like he just exists. Barely at that.”

No one said anything after that. As if choreographed all heads had turned towards Ms. Morrell. Her hands were still folded primly, disposition serene.

“I’ve had a talk with some of Scott’s teachers,” she began, voice soft yet clinical. Invested, yet not quite caring. Stiles recognized it from his own sessions with her. Somehow, it annoyed him more in this setting. He could understand her being professional and in mentor mode with him. Scott on the other hand was a True Alpha, which supposedly was a big deal, not to mention the head of the local pack. Surely, that should warrant a smidge more emotion on her part. Yet he wasn’t exactly surprised. Emissaries – they sure were a separate breed altogether.

“Sadly, the teachers all confirm your concerns. His attention in class is slipping, so are his grades. Lately he’s taken to skipping classes entirely. Having listened to you here tonight, I think it’s safe to assume he’s suffering from some sort of psychological trauma as a result of this confrontation. It probably sparked emotions and processes not fully healed after Allison’s death.”

“So he’s depressed and grieving? Is that your _diagnosis_? No offense to you, but I could’ve told you that. In fact, Stiles told Scott the very same thing earlier this morning.”

Lydia pinned Morrell with a look normally reserved for plebeians and freshmen trying to steal her seat in the cafeteria.

“That’s exactly what I’m saying,” replied Morrell, unphased by Lydia’s thinly veiled dismissal. “The diagnosis is hardly the challenge in cases like this. How to facilitate his mental healing however, is. With his mother’s permission, I would like to schedule at least two sessions a week with Scott. One or two at school, and preferably one afternoon session at my private office. I can’t spare too much time during the school day, I have other students to tend to as well,” she admitted with a minuscule nod in Stiles’ direction.

“An afternoon session without a fixed end time would allow us time to work through some issues undisturbed. Providing he’s willing and responsive to me, of course. There are no guarantees.”

“Will his mental healing include interpreting blots of ink on cue cards?” asked Lydia, voice falsely saccharine. “If so, I think I’d much prefer to talk to Scott myself. I have the time. No school for me until my case has gone to trial. And I have the added benefit of knowing him better, plus I have an IQ of 170 and have read up on grad school level psychology material.”

“You also have the disadvantage of being incredibly biased and emotionally invested,” retorted Morrell, voice still even and unaffected. Not for the first time Stiles wondered if she was half robot.  
The emissary leaned forward, not breaking Lydia’s hard glare. She had some balls; Stiles would give her credit for that. Not many dared to gaze at a censorious Lydia for too long. Few lived to tell.

“I beg your pardon? What is that supposed to – I realize I might not have official credentials,but rest assured I will - “

“Allison was your best friend. Scott is your alpha,” interrupted Morrell firmly. “You might know their story, but you know it through your own eyes and filters. You are colored by your experience, your friendship with them. Your love for them. In short, you can’t be objective, Lydia. Which is a good thing, because that means you can be a _friend_. Scott will need that too. As a counselor and a psychiatrist, I can ask the right questions, I can get the process of healing going. I can make him confront his grief. However, I alone cannot help him through it. I cannot share memories and forge new ones. That is your role in this, Lydia. That is all of your roles in this.”

She took the time to look from one person to the next, holding their gaze for a moment.

“I hope you’ll trust me to help,” she added softly, looking suddenly more human than Stiles could remember. She was looking at Melissa, but addressing the room at large. Scott’s mom let out a quiet sob, nodding.  
After a moment of relieved, yet tense silence, someone cleared their throat messily. To Stiles’ bewilderment, it was his dad.

“I’m sorry for bringing this up, but I need to address something of a more practical nature.”

The sheriff looked like he’d rather consume a bucket of lemons than continue, but there was no mistaking the steely resolve to his eyes.

“Our chief concern tonight was Scott’s mental health, and I’m sure he’ll be in very capable hands with Ms. Morrell.”

Stiles possibly threw up in his mouth, just a little. God, was that a – it was! Well, this day just kept on giving! His dad had just winked at the emissary. What was even worse - Morrell appeared to be blushing.

The sheriff looked disgustingly smug for a moment, but recovered quickly. Clearing his throat, he continued.

“However, there are practical concerns we should discuss. What happens if something supernatural rolls into town while Scott is – well, in treatment? He’s the alpha, but at the moment he’s hardly fit to take charge his own life, much less the welfare of his pack. If word gets out he’s “under the weather”, would it be more likely for someone to challenge him?”

The sheriff rubbed his chin looking far too tired for Stiles’ liking, but at least he’d switched out of his flirty mode. Not that he liked the direction this was taking either.

“I don’t know much about werewolf politics or whatnot, and at the danger of offending anyone with this analogy, I’ve seen rival gangs go to war over less. As a law enforcer I have to ask. The safety of this town is my responsibility and I’m concerned this might pose a threat.”

“That is an excellent question, Sheriff,” commended Lydia with a nod. “I’ve been wondering the same myself. I’m not sure there are any immediate threats out there now, but better safe than sorry. We’ve been sorry too many times already.”

“There are,” grumbled Stiles, gritting his teeth. “Threats, I mean. And please don’t rattle your handcuffs again, dad, but we should definitely keep an eye out for Theo.”

“Really?” Kira looked doubtful. “He’s not even a real werewolf, and certainly not an alpha. Also, didn’t he help us with the Dread Doctors?”

Stiles snorted, curling his lips in dismay. “Yeah, no. Not really. Theo doesn’t help anyone unless it benefits him in some shape or form. He aided us because it was the lesser of two evils. We more or less blackmailed him into that. He would never have volunteered out of the goodness of his heart. Not sure the dude even has a heart, but that is beside the point.”

“He almost killed my son.” Melissa’s face was hard. “I will never trust that boy. I can’t believe I’m about to say this, but Stiles is right. Theo could be a threat. We can’t ignore that.”

“What’s your take on this?”

Stiles’ dad had addressed Morrell. As usual she kept quiet. She tilted her head slightly, face unreadable.

“It’s not my role to advice you in this matter. I’m not Scott’s emissary.”

She held up a silencing finger when Stiles made to protest. “I will however say this: Theo Raeken and the other chimeras are elements that disturb the balance. There is a natural order to things, a balance between contrasting forces, as well as between supernatural and human. These Chimeras are not a part of this world order. That doesn’t automatically make them bad. They can tip either way, as we all can. However, given the nature of their creation it’s prudent to assume they’ll be more likely to fall on the darker end of the spectrum. Unless given an incentive not to.”

“Wait?” Stiles’ head was spinning. “Are you telling us we should try to _rehabilitate_ Theo? Turn him from the dark side?”

“No.” Morrell smiled. “I’m not telling you what to do. I’m telling you _what is_ _possible_. I do not know this Theo Raeken. I will leave the judgment of that up to you and this pack.”

“Which leads us back to my original question,” said the sheriff, with an air of impatience. “Who will be in charge while Scott recovers?”

It was a good question. Stiles honestly didn’t know the answer to that. Liam was Scott’s only beta werewolf, but he was far too inexperienced. Lydia had excellent leadership talents, but was housebound. Kira was on fire with the katana in her hands, but more of a klutz without it. There really was only one logical answer, even if Derek technically wasn’t part of Scott’s pack.  
He began to mouth his suggestion, but stopped abruptly when he realized most of the people in the room were already staring at him.

“What?” he asked perplexed. “Why are you all staring at me? Do I have something on my face?” He ran a hand over his chin, rubbing it nervously. Next to him Derek muttered something about “slow on the uptake”.

Then it dawned on him.

“No!” he said, shaking his head violently. “You can’t be serious? No!”

“It makes perfect sense,” said Lydia. “You’ve always been Scott’s second in command, whether you know it or not.”

“A second in command that’s never commanded, and someone that Scott never listened to anyway. Besides, I have no super strengths, claws or fighting skills of any kind. And don’t even list my magical ability,” he warned. “That is wonky at best. At this point, I’m more of a liability than a resource. Derek should do it.”

“Stop protesting,” said Derek fondly, patting him on the arm. Stiles swatted at him angrily. “Think of Liam, Mason and Hayden,” said Derek. “They don’t know me at all, but they trust you. I’ll help you with the strength and claws. You do the leading. Lydia will help with the knowledge. Together we’ll be brains and brawn.”.

“And beauty,” added Lydia, inspecting her cuticles. “Then it’s settled.” She clapped her hands together much like a judge swinging her gavel. Kira and Melissa rose from the table signaling in clear terms that the discussion was over in their eyes. Stiles remained seated gaping like a trout.

“Did my son just get appointed interim warden of the supernaturals?” asked the sheriff somewhat mollified. He sounded caught between pride and terror.

“He’s the best choice,” said Derek, sounding so sincere he either meant it or was wasting his acting talents on this backwash town. Both options scared Stiles a little. Not wanting to hear what his dad might say to that, he made a mad dash to the downstairs bathroom to splash generous amounts of water on his shocked face.

He instantly regretting it when he was assaulted by a tsunami of lavender, both visually and aromatically. “Damn you, Lydia Martin,” he gasped, then decided the only way to survive was to hold his breath. He did his business in record time, his lounges screaming for mercy through the entire process.

When he returned to the living room, Melissa and Kira had already left. Lydia had presumably retired to the guest room. His chance for appeal was long gone.

“Crap on a stick,” he muttered darkly, sensing a slight buzzing underneath his skin that usually resulted in locked doors, wayward fans or flickering lights. “Get a grip,” he admonished, shut his eyes and took a deep breath. He tried to follow Morrell’s advice, focusing on what anchored him. The Nemeton was too far away to give him any real strength now, the telluric currents nowhere near the house. Derek however, was nearby.

He found him in the kitchen loading the dirty mugs into the dishwasher. It was endearingly domestic, also both right and wrong at the same time. Wrong because this was Derek Hale, werewolf extraordinaire, who had scared and aroused Stiles in equal measures since the day he met him. And right because – well, just because it was.

“Hey,” he greeted, leaning against the door frame. Derek looked over his shoulder, eyebrow arched, but continued the cleanup.

“Hi yourself,” he replied. Stiles couldn’t see it but he knew Derek was smiling. “Where did you run off to? You alright?”

The kitchen light flickered, which was answer enough. Derek dropped what he was doing and within seconds Stiles was hugged closely, engulfed in safety.

“You didn’t see that coming did you?” murmured Derek. Stiles shook his head.  
“Not even remotely,” he admitted.  
“Don’t worry, you’ll do great.”

Stiles snorted. “Have you met me? All I do “great” is sarcasm, and somehow I don’t see any scenarios where I snark my way out of a supernatural confrontation of any kind. Probably the opposite, in fact. I will probably escalate and aggravate the situation.”

Derek flicked his ear, eliciting a high-pitched yowl.

“You always do that,” he admonished, breaking the hug enough for there to be room for him to stare Stiles down. “You’re always so self-deprecating, and there’s no need for that. Besides, this is a temporary situation, and you’ve hardly been given the Iron Throne to govern. We’ll all help. And aside from Theo, whose threat level I think you’re exaggerating a bit, there are no immediate dangers ahead.”

“Glad to hear someone has faith in me,” Stiles mumbled. “Morrell is not impressed with my progress, sorely because there’s been none to speak of. My dad will also tell you I’m prone to hasty and ill-advised decisions. In fact, I’m somewhat astonished he didn’t veto the suggestion outright.”

Derek rolled his eyes. It made him look years younger. “There’s a huge difference between spending too much money on The Last Airbender movie merch, and decisions that will impact others. You’re willing to go down with the ship rather than turn tail and run. You never quit even in the face of terrible odds. In short, you instinctively put the wellfare of your friends above your own. It was unanimous, Stiles. Even your dad agrees.”

“Who told you about the merch?” spluttered Stiles. Derek just cocked his head, grinning toothily. “A little bird,” he teased. Stiles socked him on the shoulder.

“What’s with you? _Little bird_? Who do you think you are? _Varys_? Does that make me Tyrion? God, I’m Tyrion aren’t I? On second thought, you can’t be Varys either, you’re not dickless. Very much not so.”

“Quit the Game of Thrones references while you’re ahead, please. Besides, I should be the one asking the critical questions,” countered Derek, arms crossed. “ _The Last Airbender_? Seriously? That movie was a turkey from start to finish.”

“I know,” gritted Stiles out. “I just had high expectations and went a bit overboard waiting for the premiere. I should’ve known better, I see that now. I mean, M. Night Shyamalan hasn’t gotten anything right since The Sixth Sense. In my defense, not even the most pessimistic of the lot could predict it would be that bad.”

“We’ve strayed off topic,” said Derek, grinning fondly. “Bottom line, you’re not M. Night Shyamalan. You won’t botch this up.”

“Whatever you say, positive-wolf.”

Derek tugged on Stiles’ shirt, guiding him towards the living room. “Stop your whining please, and help me clear the rest of the mugs.”

“You’re so bossy, I kind of like – OH MY GOD!”

Stiles stopped dead, causing Derek to crash painfully into him. Nope. So much nope. He pivoted on the spot, rubbing his eyes frantically, forcing Derek to retreat back into the hallway.

“ _Bleach_! I have a mighty need. God, I wish I could unsee that!”

“What?” Derek was clearly confused. “I don’t understand – oomph! Stiles, what are you doing?”

Stiles clasped a hand over his mouth. “Shush, not so loud. God, didn’t you see it? My dad? He was – “ Stiles shuddered violently.

“Are you having a seizure?” Derek sounded honestly bewildered. “You’re dad’s just talking to Morrell. What’s wrong with that?”

Stiles leveled Derek with a glare, huffing in annoyance. “ _Flirting_ , Derek! He isn’t talking to Morrell, he’s flirting with her! And worse yet, she was smiling!”

“As people oftentimes do during conversations, flirtatious or not,” supplied Derek deadpan. Stiles flailed in exasperation.

“Morrell doesn’t smile, Derek! Not really. She just stares, sometimes there will be a tiny twitch at the corner of her mouth, but she never grins, shows teeth and there’s never laughter! This is terrible! And here I thought the bathroom was a horror,” he grumbled darkly. “It pales in comparison!”

“Now you’ve completely lost me.”

Stiles took two steps to the right, opened the bathroom door with a sweeping gesture. Derek visibly recoiled.

“That is ghastly!” he proclaimed heartfelt.

“I don’t want Morrell as my step-mom,” whined Stiles pathetically, banging his head against the wall in frustration. “I don’t want my dad courting a freaking emissary! What is my life?”

“I dunno, it might not be so bad,” said Derek innocently, something that raised all of Stiles’ flags, pinged his radar and activated his bullshit detector. “Your dad on dates would mean more alone time for us, right?”

He crowded up on Stiles, pinning him against the wall. Stiles gulped as Derek leered down on him, an almost feral glint to his eyes.

“I can think of many things I’d like to do to you with your dad otherwise occupied.”

He let a hand trail down Stiles’ body, inching impossibly slowly towards his already aching member. Stiles was easily aroused, that was no secret. Still, Derek had him setting new records weekly.  
Morrell’s tinkling laughter trailed out from the living room, drowning out a muffled moan as Derek cupped him firmly, and then squeezed.

Ten minutes later Stiles saw stars, tinged with lavender as he came violently all over Derek’s face. Well, at least something good had come of Lydia’s abundance of scented candles. The smell would drown out the distinct stink of cum.

Probably.

 

***

 

 

  
“You can just put your jacket and stuff on my bed if you want? Or anywhere, really. Not sure there’s a clean surface to sit on, though... Shit, sorry about the mess.”

Stiles bustled around his room, doing a pathetic attempt to clean up the worst of it. He grabbed a stack of dirty t-shirts, socks and boxers and cringed when he realized most of them had jizz stains, used to clean up the worst of Derek and his mess out of sheer convenience. They usually were too exhausted to get washcloths. He threw the pile into the bathroom and shut the door using perhaps a little too much force. He heard the soft click of the door locking and cringed again. He’d once again used his crazy magic mojo without intending to, which meant it was still very much responding to his emotional state. Awesome.

He glanced quickly in the direction of his visitor and was relieved to note he didn’t seem to have noticed anything amiss. That was the perk of being a spaz even on good days. When odd shit happened, no one seemed to notice.  
He kicked a few of his stinky protective pads under the bed, and then dumped down in the swivel chair, surveying the teenager in front of him with a slightly manic grin.

“Thanks again, Danny, for coming. I really do appreciate it.”

Danny dumped his bag on the bed as suggested, then sat down uncomfortably at the edge of it, staring skeptically at his host through narrow eyes.

“I’m still not sure why you asked me here,” he began, cheeks dimpling even if he wasn’t smiling. Stiles wondered how deep they went. If he pushed his index finger into it, would it disappear entirely? He was itching to find out. “The last time I was in your bedroom you wanted me to trace a text and got your cousin to strip to persuade me.” Danny glanced around, eyebrow arched. “No hot guys in sight. I guess that means you don’t want to ask me any hard favors?”

Stiles crossed his arms, mouth set in an exaggerated pout. “ _No hot guys_  He sighed dramatically. “That stings, dude. It does however answer the question I kept asking that never answered.”

“What question?” Danny looked a little lost.

“If I was attractive to gay guys. I asked you like way back in sophomore year, if I’m not mistaken.”

“You’re still just as odd as before I left,” mumbled Danny, shaking his head. He was smiling, though, the dimples even more pronounced. “And I never said you weren’t hot. Objectively you are, even more so now,” he added, looking him up and down. Stiles blushed and spluttered. Danny grinned widely.

“You’re not really my type, though. No offense. I mostly ignored you back then not to give you ideas. Terrible strategy, I know.” He shrugged noncommittally. “Anyway, I was mainly noticing you hadn’t stashed a grumpy Adonis in the corner like last time.”

“I can totally do an angry striptease if you want?” suggested Stiles mock-seriously. “Now that I know you find me hot like burning and all that jazz.”

Danny laughed, shaking his head. “No need for that, keep your clothes on. Why don’t you tell me what I’m doing here instead?”

Stiles grabbed a pen from his desk and began tapping it nervously on his leg. Where should he begin? He had in fact invited Danny for a favor, that much was true. Still, it felt wrong to just jump right in and ask. He hadn’t seen much of Danny for close to a year, so perhaps a bit of catch-up was in order first? It seemed polite. As interim pack leader, he should probably do stuff like this. Bonding. Communication. Team spirit.  
Stiles mentally slapped himself. He was terrible at this! Also, he had nothing in common with Danny.

Aside from lacrosse...

“We’ve missed you on the team,” he blurted, latching on to the topic like a life raft. He nodded towards his lacrosse stick resting by the end of his bed. “Do you plan on joining again now that you’re back? And where did you go, anyway? Coach never gave a straight answer. Just wept not so quietly into one of his gross hankies, then changed the subject. Or yelled at Greenberg. Sometimes both.”

“God, Greenberg’s still on the team?” Danny’s eyes widened in disbelief. “How many times has he been held back exactly?”

“No clue,” shrugged Stiles. “All I know is that he’s nothing like fine wine, meaning he’s not getting better with age. Basically we need all the help we can get.”

Danny chewed his lip, then shrugged. “I might. I haven’t decided yet. I have my eyes set on an East Coast school for college and need to work on my grades. I’m never getting a lacrosse scholarship anyway, so I might not have the time.”

“Please come back,” pleaded Stiles, surprised by how much he meant it. Lacrosse was hardly his top priority these days, but he did honestly enjoy it, especially now that they allowed him on the field more often than not. “We’ve been saddled with Greenberg’s cousin playing goalie. It’s not a great success. I think he’s scared of the ball, actually. I swear Coach would erect a statue in your honor, handcrafted out of his own earwax if you decided to give it another go. He’d certainly cry tears of joy.”

“Not sure that is a scene I want to witness, but I’ll think about it,” promised Danny mirthfully.

“Awesome.”

They descended into silence. Danny squirmed awkwardly on the bed, letting his eyes roam the various posters and pictures on Stiles’ walls, probably less out of curiosity and more to have something to occupy him. His eyes widened somewhat when he scanned the murder board that thankfully didn’t contain too much weird stuff at the moment. Stiles for his part ran scenarios in his head, trying to figure out which strategy to choose in order to get Danny to agree to his somewhat unorthodox and decidedly illegal request.

“So,” he began somewhat stiltedly, “where did you go? You simply disappeared on us without warning. Coach was heartbroken. First Jackson, then Isaac and all of a sudden you just vanished in the night with no explanation. I know you didn’t move, or at least your family didn’t. Rumors had it you’d been caught hacking into the NSA database or something, but I don’t think so.”

Stiles bent the pen he was manhandling a tad too hard and the plastic casing cracked and splintered. A trail of blue ink ran down his index finger and he hastily reached for a paper towel conveniently placed on his desk. He was prone to messes of all kinds. History had thought him to always keep it handy.

“Oops, wow – yeah, I’m still pretty much the worst klutz in a ten mile radius.”

“I can see that.” Danny grinned, looking marginally more at ease. Then his face turned serious again.

“Why didn’t you believe the rumors?” he asked. “It wouldn’t be the first time I was caught hacking, and I know you know about that.”

Stiles shrugged. “I know all my dad’s passwords. I logged onto the police database and checked. There was nothing new listed on you. Ergo, that wasn’t the reason. And for the record, I’m just being a nosy idiot, you totally don’t have to answer the question if you don’t want to.”

Danny pursed his lips, eyes narrow. He looked like he was having an inner debate, weighing his pros and cons. Stiles waited as patiently as he could, inspecting the mess that was his hands. God, they looked terrible.

“I – “

Danny paused, drew a deep breath, then continued.

“I took a semester off. Traveled a bit. I have an older cousin who is halfway through college. He’s having a tough time deciding on his major and decided to take some time off to mull it over. I ended up tagging along with him.”

“Wow, that sounds awesome!”

It truly did. Stiles would love to put his life of supernatural chaos on pause and just jet off. Maybe he could do that before heading off to college. Could he even go to college and leave Beacon Hills behind with his crazy connection to the Nemeton and the town’s unfortunate tendency to attract bad seeds of all kinds? It was a notion he hadn’t dared contemplate too closely yet. He truly was amazing at procrastinations of all kinds.

“It was. I needed it.” Danny stared at his fingers. He seemed a bit nervous for some reason.  “Breaking it off with Ethan was hard. Yet I knew it was the right thing to do. I didn’t want to get tangled up in your mess, and I knew that if I didn’t walk away that was unavoidable.”

“Our mess?”

Stiles was confused. Surely, Danny didn’t know about the shadier side of Beacon Hills. Did he?

“ _What mess_?” Danny's voice went up an octave, then rolled his eyes and gestured with a sweeping motion towards the murder board. “ _That_ mess! The supernatural shit-fest that had been escalating since our sophomore year! I never intended to date a werewolf! I know better than that, and yet I fell for him hook line and sinker, that strong-jawed, built like a God idiot of an alpha. Worse yet, he was really nice. Kind even. Yet, tangled up in a lot more nonsense than I wanted part off.”

Danny lifted his head and let his gaze fall on Stiles, whose mouth was hanging open in slack-jawed shock. He snorted.

“You know about –.” Stiles gestured wildly towards the murder board. Danny nodded.

“Yes, I know about werewolves. And Kanimas,” he added. “Jackson –“ began Stiles, voice squeaky.  
“Jackson indeed,” confirmed Danny. “That was a fun discovery. And by fun I mean utterly terrifying.”  
“Holy crap!”

Stiles’ mind was reeling. On the one hand his mind was spinning so hard he was about to suffer vertigo, on the other hand Danny knowing about all the shit that went bump in the night, might actually make it all the more easier to get him to help him. Alternatively, he might run screaming for the hills. It all depended on Danny’s general attitude towards the supernatural, really. So far it wasn’t very promising.

“ _How_?” was all he managed to squeak out, mind still reeling. “When? Why? What?” he followed up with, unintelligently. Danny shrugged.

“Since I started high school,” he answered, raking a hand over his face, shoulders slumping. “My family has always known I guess. Don’t worry,” he added hastily when he noticed Stiles’ eyes widening comically. “We’re not supernaturals of any kind. Not hunters either for that matter. And yes, I know about that too.”

Stiles did a remarkable trout impersonation. Danny sighed.

“We’re just in the know, but never really been a part of it. Not to my knowledge anyway. It’s been customary to inform the children in our family when we started high school, mainly to know what to look for and to stay the fuck away from it all. I managed to keep my nose clean until your buddy Scott started somersaulting all over the lacrosse field. Soon after Jackson started to leak black ooze. I honestly didn’t know what to do at that point, caught between wanting to help him I guess, and at the same time encouraged not get involved. It was hard.”

“Did – “. Stiles struggled to form words, mind still reeling. “Did Jackson know that you, you know – _knew_?”

Danny shook his head. “I never said anything. I think he subconsciously wanted me to know, though. My lacrosse pads were torn to shreds by claws. He also recruited me to find out who’d messed with his camera and so on. He wasn’t very discreet about it. Still, I played dumb, pretended I hadn’t seen anything. I still don’t know what I would’ve done if he’d just flat out confided in me.”

Danny had been staring at his hands while he talked, but lifted his head to meet Stiles’ eyes. He looked wrecked.  
“Does that make me a horrible person? Not doing what you’ve done? You’ve like, embraced it all.”

Stiles just shook his head. “No. No, of course not. I’m a reckless idiot, no one with any sense should ever follow my lead. Funnily enough, no one else seems to get that.”

Danny actually laughed at that. “I don’t know what you mean by that,” he added. “I never could quite get a handle on you. You’re - _different_.”  
Stiles shrugged. “You have no idea! Seems as if no amount of werewolves or dread doctors can change that, I guess. Oddball Stilinski, at your service.”

“Dread Doctors?”  
“You don’t want to know.” Stiles grimaced. “Trust me.”

Danny didn’t pursue the matter. Wise man.

They fell into silence. Again.

Danny appeared lost in thought. Stiles continued to run scenarios in his head, trying and failing to find the perfect segue. Danny was bound to realize that what Stiles wanted was tied to all the shit he so desperately wanted to stay clear of. When no clear solution came to him, he decided to simply wing it.

“Why didn’t you just stay away? Why come back now when you know what’s going on around town?”

Danny looked taken aback. Almost as if the idea was foreign to him.

“I mean, senior year is almost over,” continued Stiles. “You always got good grades. You could’ve graduated early and just gone off to college already. Why come back at all if you want to stay away from all of this?”  
Danny looked uncomfortable. As if Stiles had hit a nerve, or poked at an infected wound.

“I missed my family,” Danny finally admitted. “I stupidly thought I could keep my nose out of it for a few months.” He chortled mirthlessly, throwing Stiles an unreadable look. “I forgot about you and your wicked ways.”  
He sighed resignedly, ignoring Stiles’ offended “Hey!”.

“I thought I was in the clear when Jackson moved away. I fully intended to stay out of your way. Then Ethan wormed his way into my life. For a while I stupidly entertained the notion it might not be so bad. Then Aiden died. And Allison.”

He leveled Stiles with a look filled with pain and desperation. “I don’t want to be sucked into whatever crisis you’re dealing with now. I don’t want to get close to any of you.”

“Okay.”

Now it was Danny’s turn to look taken aback.

“Okay?”

Stiles nodded. “Okay. Contrary to what you might think, I’m not really as horrible a person as you seem to believe. You don’t want to hang around Scott’s pack of supernatural misfits. I can respect that. I hadn’t planned on recruiting you anyway. Honestly, I just wanted your help hacking a bank account.”

Danny burst out laughing.  “Well, that’s a relief. Only hacking a bank account! You’re nuts. That’s a federal offense.”

“Oh, I know that. My dad’s in law enforcement, in case you hadn’t realized,” he replied, sarcasm dripping all over the floor. “You could totally do it, though? Right? Hack a bank, I mean.”

Danny was getting to his feet, muttering under his breath. “You’re out of your mind.”  
“Probably,” conceded Stiles. “You could, though?”  
“Yes, idiot. Of course, I could. Jesus, Stiles. That doesn’t mean I want to.”  
“What if I promised never to bother you again? No supernatural shit ever again from my end.”

Danny stopped, his gaze at least 90 % doubtful. Stiles offered his pinky finger.

“I pinky swear. I won’t ask you anything. Not even about homework or my level of hotness, or if I’m attractive to gay guys. I won’t even ask you what time it is, directions, who your favorite Teenage Ninja Turtle is, or your political affiliations.”

Danny chewed his lower lip, scrutinizing Stiles through narrow eyes. The seconds ticked away at an antagonizing slow pace.

“I need that in writing,” said Danny finally. “And I want Scott to sign it too.”

Stiles launched himself at Danny in a flurry of limbs and cries of joy. “Thank you, beautiful person,” he laughed giddily, hugging him tightly. “You have no idea how helpfully you’re being.”

A low, threatening growl suddenly filled the room, floor to ceiling. Stiles felt Danny stiffen in fear, and truthfully he might possibly have startled a little as well. Or a lot.  He disentangled from Danny with difficulty, and turned towards his unannounced guest. Derek stood posturing threateningly by the window, eyes glowing blue, teeth exposed, albeit sans fangs, thank goodness.

“Holy crap,” mumbled Danny, face white with fear. He scrambled for his bag, tripped and fell onto the bed. Derek did not seem particularly happy about that.

"Sweet lord,” muttered Stiles, eyes almost rolling out of their sockets. “Derek, what the fuck is wrong with you?”

His only answer were more snarls. Awesome! Just what he needed. A jealous boyfriend.

“You remember Danny, right?” he asked casually. Danny choked on a whimper. “He helped us track that text way back when you were kind of a fugitive and we hadn’t quite figured out that Peter was the alpha. Remember?”

Danny waved weakly. Derek had stopped growling, but his facial expression was a far cry from friendly.

“I’m guessing that’s not your cousin Miguel, then.”

Stiles actually laughed. He’d almost forgotten about that.

“Not exactly, no. Danny, meet Derek Hale. Derek, behave. Come say hello like a normal person.”

He gestured elaborately in Danny’s direction. Derek made no move to act like a civilized human.  
“Danny is gonna help hack into your bank accounts, so I suggest you start acting nicely.”

Derek’s shoulders relaxed somewhat, glancing from Danny to Stiles and back again.

“I’m not stripping this time,” he mumbled darkly, dumping down on the swivel chair leaving Stiles’ options limited between standing awkwardly in the middle like a referee or perching on his lap. By the arch of his eyebrow Derek seemed to prefer the latter. Stiles didn’t know if he was annoyed or flattered.

“Pity,” mumbled Stiles and Danny in perfect unison. Derek huffed angrily, crossing his arms, unwittingly creating a vivid sense of deja vu that caused the other two to break down in peals of laughter.

 

 


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is from Malia's POV

It was a relief to be back home.

Oddly, it hadn't been until she’d stepped out of Braeden’s car and laid eyes on her dad’s house that Malia truly realized just how much she’d missed this place. She now stood in the middle of her bedroom, breathing in the familiar scent of her dad, sandalwood and the vanilla-scented fabric softener he bought in bulk at the dollar store. She kicked off her shoes and flopped down on the bed, face down. Little by little she felt a deep-seeded tension unfurl and seep out of her spine.

Getting out of the car today had felt like being let out of a cage. Freeing. Malia had slammed the car door with unnecessary force, marched up to her dad’s house and not once looked back. Fuck Braeden! Fuck Deaton! She wouldn’t miss them, even for a second.

Her dad had been over the moon to have her back, hugging her tightly. It was nice. Malia had hugged back, and not just because it was expected, like some of the motions she still went through mainly because Stiles or the others had told her to. She’d wanted to hug him. She’d missed him. He’d accepted her need to travel and look for her birth mom without too many questions. He hadn’t been happy about it. Not at all. It had of course helped that he didn’t know Malia’s biological mother was a homicidal maniac and that Malia wanted nothing more than to kill her. Not that she’d had much success anyway. The Desert Wolf was nowhere to be found. Which again meant her burning need for vendetta was tabled for the time being.

It had taken half a dozen showers and liberal amounts of shampoo and soap before she’d felt even halfway clean again. Hours upon hours stuck in the backseat of Braeden’s car, alternating between watching the uninspired landscape and the back of Deaton and Braeden’s heads, had taken its toll. Malia had considered Braeden a poor conversationalist, but she was almost talkative compared to Alan Deaton. Combine the two however, and you were better entertained alone in a tomb.

When they first started driving, Malia had asked question upon question, wanting to know where Deaton had been, why he went away, why they were picking him up, what he knew about her mom and on and on the list went. After half an hour of non-answers, vague gibberish and benign smiles, she gave up. Unsurprisingly, Braeden had been of no help whatsoever. Her only contribution had been a myriad of annoyed glares and filling the car with inane pop music. Halfway to Beacon Hills Deaton had taken over control of the radio. His fondness for edgy jazz was not an improvement.

Malia flipped over, shook her shoulders, popping her neck with audible cracks. Thank god that nightmare was over. Now it was time to stretch her legs. _Really_ stretch them.

She waved goodbye to her dad, promising to be back soon. The next hour was spent running mindlessly around the Preserve, chasing rabbits, climbing trees, leaping across creeks and generally just acting like a giddy animal, freed after being kept on a leash for far too long. She could practically hear the dog jokes in Stiles’ sarcastic tone ringing in her ears, and she didn’t even care. In fact, it kind of made her miss him.

Malia finally came to a stop, not too far from her old coyote den. The need to visit was gone. That part of her life was over, she knew that. Yet, she wasn’t really settled in her new one either. She loved her dad as much as she possibly could. And no, not Peter. Obviously not, he didn’t really count. He’d betrayed her, and was gone god knew where, probably plotting a way to usurp Scott of his powers, his pack and if he could swing it, world domination. Malia bristled. She’d been so curious about him. She knew better now.

She stepped a bit closer to the den, considering going inside one last time, but changed her mind. It felt - _off_. A slight chill ran down her spine, and for a split second she got the feeling she wasn’t alone. She inhaled deeply, dissecting the scents around her, but nothing stood out. The uneasy feeling however, lingered. Then again that might  be because her thoughts had strayed to Peter, she argued.

Walking away from her den, Malia forced her mind back to her adoptive father instead. He loved her, oddities and strange ticks be damned. Malia knew that on some level he suspected she was something more than just a lost kid with a bit of social misfit vibe going on. Yet, he let her be. Didn’t prod. Didn’t demand she change in any way. Simply ruffled her hair, asked her about her day. Gave her money and proud smiles, even when she came home with Ds on her math tests.

Acceptance. He accepted her. Just the way she was. Few people did she’d come to realize.

Thinking about fathers naturally segued back to the much hated subject of her birth mother. Malia picked up a sizable rock and threw it forcefully in the direction of her former den. The sound of it breaking into sprays of finer pebbles echoed through the night. Somewhere above her several birds took flight in fright.

Fuck The Desert Wolf! She cursed creatively, kicking up more dirt. Weeks of dead ends and uncomfortable company and she had nothing to show for. It was such a fucking waste of time, it made her want to scream. She and Braeden had either arrived too late, or chased false leads. For someone trusted with a badge and a title, Braeden was a shitty investigator. Apparently, Alan Deaton was no better.

Malia had felt hope blooming when Braeden dropped the bomb they were picking up Deaton. Scott trusted him. Held him to a high standard. Surely, he’d be able to help them or at the very least provide some more useful information. The few encounters she’d had with him had been pleasant enough.

All her hopes of a better source of information was rudely squashed when they’d met up with him on the parking lot of a local Gas’N Sip in a forgettable village, on the brink of becoming a ghost town. Malia barely managed a hello before she was ordered on a supply run. Looking over the lengthy list of mostly unnecessary items, Malia had protested vehemently, but as always her objections had fallen on deaf ears. Braeden had crossed her arms, pursed her lips and exuded so much raw power and annoyance the air around her seemed to crackle. Malia felt strangely compelled to comply.

She’d returned half an hour later with bags brimming with useless purchases, only to find Deaton waiting primly in the front seat having called shotgun. A slight nod was all the greeting she got. In annoyance, Malia wrenched open the trunk of the SUV to stash the supplies away. Out of nowhere, Braeden materialized by her side like an apparition, effectively blocking her way.

“What are you doing?”

Malia had regarded her, eyebrows curved high. “I’m putting away your stupid stuff. You owe me four bucks, by the way.”

“I gave you a 20!”

“And this shit cost 24. I’m not eating any of this crap, meaning you owe me four dollars.”

She’d held out a hand expectantly. Braeden’s eyes rolled, adopting a facial expression more fitting of someone forced to endure the stench of rotting fish. Still, she’d produced the cash.

“Thank you. Now move, so I can put it in the car.”

“I can do that. Give me the bags!”

Braeden grabbed for the groceries much like long-suffering parents did with clumsy kids. Malia bristled. Perhaps it was instinct, or just a desperate urge to annoy Braeden as much as possible. Either way, she feinted left, then twirled to the right and yanked open the trunk. Malia only managed a quick glance before Braeden jumped in, shutting it so quickly it almost took her fingers off.

“What was that?” Malia plastered her face to the rear window, peering inside. She couldn’t see much through the tinted windows.

“What was what?”

Braeden would do well not to pursue a career on stage. Malia gave her a withering glare.

“There’s a huge crate of sorts in the back. What’s in it?”

“I dunno.”

Malia crossed her arms disbelievingly.

“You don’t know?”

“No.”

“You put it in your car. Why would you do that if you don’t know what it is?”

Braeden seemed nervous. Malia’s curiosity reached a new peak.

“It’s mine.”

Malia had been so busy with her glaring match, she hadn’t noticed Deaton gliding up beside them. His face was as serene as always, a minuscule smile tugging at his lips. If he didn’t come highly recommended by Scott, Malia would’ve found him somewhat creepy.

“What is it? Its a weird suitcase.”

Deaton tilted his head. “Indeed, that would make for an odd suitcase. Luckily, it’s not. I have a travel bag,” he added helpfully.

“Good for you. Not that I care. So, what’s in it?”

“Malia, get in the car. We’re leaving.” Braeden’s face was stony.

Malia shrugged offhandedly. “Okay, no problem. You can tell me all about your mystery box on the road.”

Ten minutes later, cruising down the interstate, Malia continued to pester Deaton about the box. He continued his one-man evasion show.

“Is it dead puppies”  
“No.”  
“Leather gags?”  
“No.”  
“Jimmy Hoffa?”  
“No.”  
“Are you sure? Jimmy Hoffa could absolutely fit in that thing. In some parts of the world that crate would be considered a spacious flat fit for a family of five.”  
“I swear to you, Jimmy Hoffa is not in there.”  
“Then how about a life’s supply of M&Ms?”  
“No.”  
“Pity, I’m in the mood for a snack. Is it -”

“Malia, that’s enough!”

Braeden hit the breaks hard, making Malia bump her head painfully into the seat in front of her. Behind them a chorus of honking erupted. Yeah, and Braeden complained about Malia’s driving. Her hypocrisy knew no bounds.

“If you’d just tell me what it is, I’ll happily stay silent,” said Malia innocently. “Otherwise I’ll just continue guessing. I’ll hear his heart skipping when I hit the jackpot.”

Deaton tensed minutely. Malia grinned in triumph.

“I’m sorry, Malia, but I’m afraid the content is not safe for you.” Deaton threw a halfway apologetic smile over his shoulder. It had no effect whatsoever.

“Is it a life-supply of mistletoe?”

“Honestly, just stop it!” barked Braeden.

“Not mistletoe. Duly noted. How about a lost treasure? Kryptonite? Medical grade marijuana? Are you a serial killer, Deaton?” she asked conspiratorially. “Are you California’s Dexter Morgan?” She leaned forward, resting her chin on his seat. “Is there a body in the box?” she whispered.

“MALIA!” screeched Braeden so loudly Malia’s heart skipped a beat. So did Deaton’s, but Malia had no way of knowing what had scared him, Braeden or her question.

"It’s best you don’t bother with it,” said Deaton firmly, refusing to look at her again.

Malia groaned and plopped back into the seat, pouting. “I don’t see why you can't let me what’s inside. Unless it’s some sort of supernatural misfit. Are you making special deliveries to Eichen House again, Dr. Deaton? Do you have some sort of magical beast in there?”

“Hardly,” said Deaton, his eyes trained on the highway. “There’s danger in more than just claws and fangs. In this case, knowledge can be painful. Knowledge can hurt in ways no blade can,” he offered cryptically. Malia fought the urge to strangle him with his seatbelt.

For a few miles she sulked in silence, trying hard to block out the meaningless music and the dull landscape. Yet the box in the back kept on bugging her. It was like an itch she couldn’t scratch. Speaking of, was that a scratching sound? She whipped her head around, staring at the wooden box through narrow eyes. She concentrated hard, but no. Nothing. It was probably just her imagination. Or perhaps just a cello being mangled like a tortured kitten. She honestly did not get jazz at all.

After almost an hour of keeping herself in check, and Malia just couldn’t take it anymore. It was as if the crate was calling to her. She simply had to know!

Malia unfastened her seatbelt, turned towards the sturdy cargo net and let a sharp claw run through it like a hot knife in butter. A distressed cry of warning from Deaton did not deter her. Braeden was a bit slower on the uptake, but Malia felt the car swerve violently, a clear sign that she was either trying to throw her off or stop the car. Or both. She didn’t care. A childish determination pulsed through her as she halfway climbed through the frame, tugging off the tarp on top.

“Malia, don’t!” warned Deaton. It fell on deaf ears.

She reached out, running her fingers across the wood, inching towards the lock.

Pain.

Pain the kind she’d never felt before. It felt as her entire hand was on fire. Malia screamed. Then everything turned black.

 

*

 

When she came to, she was lying on a bench at a roadside picnic area, something cold wrapped around her arms. Braeden’s unimpressed scowl loomed over her.

“Don’t,” mumbled Malia, struggling into a sitting position. Deaton wordlessly handed her a bottle of water.

“Don’t what?”

“Don’t lecture.”

“We told you not to touch it.”

Malia choked on a mouthful of water, glaring daggers at Braeden.

“No, you did in fact not tell me not to touch it. You just refused to tell me what was inside it.”

“I told you knowledge of the box could be painful,” supplied Deaton calmly. If her arm didn’t hurt so badly, she’d shred his stupid face. She was starting to understand why Stiles disliked him so much.

“It was heavily implied that you meant that metaphorically,” she spat. Deaton didn’t even deny it.

“Mind teling me what the fuck happened?”

Deaton and Braeden exchanged looks and a wordless conversation seemed to play out. After a while Deaton sighed and sat down opposite her, hands folded.

“The crate is made of mountain ash. In fact, it’s mountain ash coated with a mix of mistletoe tincture. It’s meant to keep its contents safe from supernatural creatures of all kinds.”

“It works,” offered Malia sarcastically, inspecting her slowly healing hand. “So, what’s so important you have to protect it and not tell me about it?”

Surely it had to be something spectacular. Like a Dread Doctor trap or some sort of curse.

“Mainly herbs and various ingredients used in druid medicine.”

That was - dull as fuck.

“You go to that level of extremes for dried flowers and shit?”

Deaton shrugged. “Dried flowers and shit can be extremely dangerous. The sum of its components can be stronger than the individual parts.”

“I don’t get you.”

She also didn't believe him. Deaton's heartbeat hadn't skipped, and yet his words felt untrue. 

Malia scrambled to her feet, suddenly bone tired and longing more than ever for her own bed. She climbed into the car and was grateful to note the others followed her lead. The drive back continued without incidents, aside from far too few bathroom breaks and too much jazz. All the while the crate in the back lingered on Malia’s mind. Almost calling out to her. She resisted the urge to touch it again. Didn’t as much as cast a glance at it. But she felt it. The sensation didn’t leave her until she was safely at home, cradled in her dad’s waiting arms.

Even now, hours later, it was still lingering on her mind. There was something off about it, something that wasn’t right. And there was only one person she wanted to share that suspicion with.

Stiles.

 

 


	8. Chapter 8

“Eh, Derek? What’cha doing?”

Stiles stopped dead at the threshold of his room, a box of pizza in one hand and a wad of napkins in the other, staring in confused horror at a mess of pillows and bed linens scattered all over the place. In the middle stood a frazzled looking Derek, obviously attempting to battle a pillow into a too small pillowcase.

Derek huffed in lieu of a real answer, then picked up the discarded sheets and threw them into to bathroom with an expression suggesting he was handling toxic waste.

“Derek? Wouldn’t it be better to change the sheets after we’ve rolled around in them?” Stiles waggled his eyebrows suggestively. Derek ignored him and simply continued his cleaning spree like a maid possessed.

“Okay then… I’m just going to set the pizza down over here and watch you go bananas. I’m not wasting warm pizza.”

He maneuvered past Derek with little grace, taking care not to drop the pizza, then dumped down in his swivel chair. Derek continued his ministrations undeterred.

“You wanna do my dad’s room after?” asked Stiles, mouth full of pizza. Derek threw him a withering glare over one shoulder. The display was somewhat ruined by the flowery pillowcase draped across one of his arms. Stiles giggled. “Where on earth did you find that anyway? I can’t remember having on flowery bed sheets like, ever.”

“Linen closet,” muttered Derek, his focus back on the task at hand. Stiles didn’t much mind. It involved Derek bending over. The view was nice.

“Ah, the elusive linen closet. Where the men in my life go to find sheets and bleach. Is it just me or does that sound like the blurb of a very cheesy rom-com?”

“This isn’t funny, Stiles,” mumbled Derek. Stiles wholeheartedly disagreed. It was hilarious. Also, just the kind of thing that might cheer up Scott. He fished out his phone and sent a snap. If it also found its way to Lydia’s phone, that was totally unintentional.

“Okay, I give. Why are you doing a grumpy version of Mrs. Doubtfire?”  
“Your bed stinks, Stiles.” Derek sounded almost angry.  
“Thanks a bunch, honey. Always nice to know you appreciate my musk.”  
“Not you, silly. Him.”

Derek sounded pained as he said this. Pieces were finally slotting into place. Sometimes Stiles totally forgot about the extra sensitive senses of his supernatural brethren.

“Ah, Derek-poo, are you a bit jealous?”

He grinned widely. Too widely, probably. Then again it was a rare treat realizing that his ridiculously hot boyfriend was jealous. It spoke of feelings, deep ones even. It tugged at his heart, in all the right ways.

“I dunno,” muttered Derek, sounding somewhat lost. “I might be. All I know is that I feel unsettled by this strange scent. It needs to go. I like the way you smell. I like the way we smell. This - “ he gestured towards the bed, expression pained, “This is just - wrong.”

On a good day even a mild breeze could make Stiles hard. Hearing Derek wax poetic about their mixed scents, made not just his member, but also his heart swell. God dammit, he was turning into the worst sap ever. Worse yet, he was turning into Scott, who was prone to turn in to an unflattering mix of romantic doofus and horny male when he had a crush. Considering how much Stiles had made fun of this during the most intense phases of Allison-gate, he was surprisingly okay with it now that he was showing similar symptoms.

His newfound romantic side decided this called for action of the sweeping kind. Two strides later, Stiles threaded his pizza-greasy hands through Derek’s hair, yanking him in for a bruising kiss. They toppled to the bed in a flurry of linens and limbs, the creaky bed springs completely drowned out by their filthy moans.

“Let’s stink this place up real good,” murmured Stiles, trailing sloppy kisses up Derek’s neck, heading for the back of his ear, which he knew was a very sensitive spot. It was hard to decipher if the sound Derek made was a snort or a groan. Stiles didn’t much care either way. He did however care about their state of dress.

With an agility few knew he possessed, Stiles maneuvered Derek onto his back, then kissed his way down across his torso and stomach. He was heading towards his belt, making short work of it. One button at the time, he came closer to the grand prize. He nuzzled hungrily along Derek’s shaft, now only hidden behind the thin material of his boxers. Derek hitched his hips helpfully, making it easy for Stiles to push the offending garments down his thighs. Seconds later his jeans and boxers hit the floor, followed by socks and the Henley.

Nudity. It really suited him.

“Your turn,” pleaded Derek, hands already tugging at Stiles’ t-shirt. “Take it off. Take it all off.”  
“So impatient,” murmured Stiles, his fingers tracing the contours of Derek’s cock, alternating between light brushes and firm kneading. Derek keened.

“Holy shit, oh god. Stiles!” He silenced him with another filthy kiss, wet and dirty. Stiles took the opportunity to straddle him, pulling off his own shirt in a surprisingly smooth movement. Derek’s hands wasted no time, running eagerly across Stiles’ abdomen, teasing the sensitive nipples. God, he loved that! Heck, he could probably come from that alone. He had other plans, though.

Derek showed signs of wanting to switch positions, but Stiles just shook his head, pressing a palm firmly down on Derek’s well-defined chest. “Uhm, nope. Stay there, big guy.” He pressed his pelvis down, gyrating slowly.

“Too many clothes,” panted Derek, tugging impatiently at Stiles’ belt.  
“I agree.”

Stiles removed a sock, flinging it at Derek teasingly. He caught it mid-air sending it to the floor. Stiles grinned wickedly, removing the second one as well. He then leaned forward, excrutiatingly slow, chewing deliberately on his lower lip, something he knew Derek found arousing.

“You fucking tease. Get rid of the rest.”

Stiles smirked, and promptly wrapped long fingers around Derek’s shaft. He pumped firmly, the other hand reaching down to cup his balls.  
“I will, just a sec,” he promised. Without letting go of his grip, he leaned over, pulled out the top drawer of his bedside table and located the always-within-reach lube. Not long after he’d slicked up his hands and continued his ode to Derek’s dick. For a few minutes the only sounds in the room were the light squeak of the bed and their combined moans.

“Stiles, I’m gonna come soon if you don’t stop - oh god! I want my hands on you too.”

There was something decidedly wicked about being not just on top of Derek like this, but also almost fully dressed while he was laying there naked, vulnerable and needy. It wasn’t a power thing, not really. It was more of a trust thing. Derek Hale, werewolf, trusted Stiles enough to strip down, both literally and metaphorically. That kind of thing deserved a reward.

“I have a surprise for you,” murmured Stiles, momentarily letting go of Derek’s cock to trail kisses up his stomach and chest. They met in a heated kiss, Derek’s hands alternating between massaging Stiles’ ass greedily and attempting to peal his jeans away. He decided to help him.

“I think you’re going to like it,” he added. He sat up, holding Derek’s gaze as he climbed off the bed. He shook his head forcefully when Derek showed signs of getting up. “No, stay.” Derek complied.

There was probably little grace to it, and objectively speaking not very sexy. Yet he tried to draw the striptease out a little, opening one button at a time, then finally shimmying out of his pants. It wasn’t as easy as it used to be. Lydia had insisted on upgrading some of his wardrobe in one of her many online shoppings sprees. One result was that his jeans were more fitted, something which Derek had very much approved. In the short time they’d been together Stiles learned two things - Derek really liked his ass and his mouth.

“Stiles,” whined Derek. He seemed to be struggling with conflicting emotions, simultaneously mesmerized and tortured. Stiles didn’t answer, simply thrust his hips one final time, sending his jeans and boxers to the floor in a messy puddle, then stepped out of them. Derek made grabby motions with his hands. Stiles swatted them playfully away.

“I wanna show you something,” he said breathlessly. His heartbeat sped up, almost to the point of being painful. They’d never talked about this. It was a risk, and he dearly hoped one Derek would approve of. He turned around slowly, then bent forward slightly exposing his ass.

Derek’s reaction was one for the books. Stiles was very happy his dad was on the night shift. He probably should’ve shut the window. If the neighbors complained he wasn’t entirely sure how to explain away the throaty howls emitting from his room.

“What -? Sweet Jesus, Stiles! Is that - “

Derek trailed off, apparently giving up on coherent speak. Instead, he let his hands do all the speaking. They seemed pleased if the way he cupped his the cheeks of his ass was anything to go by. The movement spread them slightly apart. Stiles bent over even further, almost to the point of tipping over. Derek emitted a high-pitched sound Stiles totally would’ve teased him about under different circumstances.

“You approve?” he asked over his shoulder. Derek answered by licking a broad stroke across Stiles’ hole. A hole currently filled beautifully with a plug. Derek’s tongue probed at it, pushing it with just the right amount of pressure, hitting that spot. Stiles cursed.

“Never mind,” he moaned. Derek continued to play with it, alternating between tugging and pushing, soon fucking him with it. It was pure, delicious torture. Stiles fisted his own cock, matching the thrusts against his prostate.

“I’m not gonna last long like this. God! Yeah, fuck. Oh man, I’m getting a cramp.”

It was not the most comfortable of positions. Derek didn’t seem to have heard him, though. He seemed hypnotized and spellbound. Good to know, thought Stiles half-delirious. If all other magic failed, at least his ass seemed to work some sexy voodoo. His magic didn’t work on his cramping muscles, though. Derek whined when Stiles turned around. He looked drugged and blissed out. Stiles took advantage of his lethargic condition and pushed him back on the bed, climbing on top of him.

“I wanna ride you,” Stiles breathed heavily, hand already reaching behind to remove the plug. It came out with an audible and obscene pop. Without waiting for a response Stiles grabbed Derek’s cock, lining it up. Derek was undoubtedly wider than the plug, but the stretch felt amazing. When he bottomed out, he stilled for a few moments, just reveling in the fullness and closeness of it all.

“I gotta move.”

It was the first coherent thing Derek had managed in a good while. “God, Stiles you’re so tight. Damn! Please, please.”

Stiles complied, lifting up and then easing back down, hitting that magical spot. Their voiced blended into an unrehearsed chorus of moans and curses. “Faster, harder,” begged Derek. Stiles had no issues complying. It didn’t take long before it all became too much. The orgasm hit hard, and he flopped down on top of Derek, totally spent. The curtains billowed softly, despite the calm night outside.

For a long time they just laid there, breathing. Reveling in the after glow.

“I should move,” murmured Stiles eventually. “If I stay much longer, I will be glued to your chest with crusty cum.”  
“Hrrumpered.”  
“That made no sense. I should get a washcloth or something.”

He started to carefully rise, Derek’s dick still in him.

“Wait.” Derek’s hand fumbled around just out of his line of sight. Then one hand cupped his ass, gently lifting him so Derek’s cock slid all the way out. Next something slightly cold touched his skin. It took him a few seconds to realize what it was. The plug. Derek grinned wolfishly, pushing it slowly back in.

“Kinky-wolf. You want me to walk around all plugged up with your cum inside my ass?”

The low growl left little doubt that was exactly what he wanted. As it turned out Stiles didn’t much mind. Especially not when Derek a while later took great pleasure in cleaning him all out. With his tongue.

 

***

 

“What’s wrong with Scott?”

Stiles was in the middle of devouring a portion of barely edible noodles from the ever disappointing school lunch menu when Malia dumped down opposite him, arms crossed. Suffice to say he had not been expecting that. The shock of it all sent him into a violent coughing fit, complete with sprays of noodle-mush. It took close to a minute for him to get it down the right pipe, wipe his tears and find his voice again. Not to mention his brain. It had promptly shut down like a power-conscious laptop at the sight of his ex. It took embarrassingly long for it to reboot. In the mean time, Malia grabbed his fork and finished the noodles. No great loss, really.

“You’re back,” he finally managed to squeak out between large mouthfuls of water. Malia arched an untrimmed eyebrow.

“Obviously.”

It was accompanied by an eye roll. Great, she’d come back more evolved in sass. That didn’t necessarily bode well for him, considering he had a newfound relationship with her cousin to reveal. A cousin she hadn’t really met yet, just his clone. There was also the ever lingering question of whether or not they were really broken up. He’d replayed the scene in his head many times, and the conclusion greatly varied with his own mood and level of insecurity.

“You texted me yesterday complaining about Braeden’s abysmal music taste. Why didn’t you mention coming back?”  
Malia shrugged, then wiped her mouth with the back of her hand.  
“I didn’t know at the time. Braeden’s plans changed. Or rather, she hadn’t informed me of her plan.” Malia grimaced. “Not the greatest of travel companions, me and Braeden.”

She sounded bitter and annoyed. Then again, Malia mostly sounded bitter and annoyed. What she lacked in nuances she made up for with bluntness.

“And you couldn’t pick up your phone after to deliver this news?”  
“I was preoccupied. It slipped my mind.”  
“Why are you back now?” Stiles’ leaned forward conspiratorially, eyes widening. “Did you find her?”

Malia scrutinized him, eyes narrow. “I’ve given you daily status reports. What do you think? That we tripped over her outside a Gas-N-Sip and tucked her safely in the trunk?”

Oh yes, definitely leveled up in the sass department. Stiles didn’t know if he should be scared or proud.  
“I take that as a no, then,” he said dryly.  
“Not so much as a whiff the entire trip.” There was a slight growl to her voice. “Weeks on end with Braeden as my only company and I have zero to show for. That and I missed out on heaps of drama here. Kira filled me in,” she added.

“Kira did? When?”  
“Last night.”  
“You went to Kira last night?”

He couldn’t help it. It hurt a bit hearing she’d sought out others and not him. Then again it was also a sign she was over him. Right?

“Yeah, after I tried Scott’s. There’s something wrong with him.”  
“He’s in a bit of a funk at the moment. You went to Scott’s last night, too?”  
“He is my alpha, it seemed right. A bit of a funk doesn’t really cover it, though.”

Stiles sighed. She was right.

“You’re right, it doesn’t. The whole Allison’s body used as a beast for nefarious purposes, hit him pretty hard. He’s getting help, though. Morrell has agreed to talk to him, try to help him work through it.”

Malia’s eyebrows shot up. “Morrell, as in Morrell with the stupid group sessions at Eichen, Morrell?”

Stiles nodded. “The one and only. She’s also helping me with the magic thing. Or should I say she’s trying to help me. I’m crap at it.”

“She sounds like a terrible teacher. You sure she should be trying to fix our alpha? She seems pretty useless to me.”

“There are probably better shrinks out there, the trouble is the whole “werewolves are real” part. Pretty sure they’d diagnose him as a complete basket case and throw him in a padded cell. So, Morrell it is. What did Scott say or do last night by the way, to make you this worried?”

Malia pursed her lips, fiddling with the fork. Stiles noticed two of the teeth were already bent out of shape.

“He didn’t do or say anything. At all. I knocked on his window. It was open,” she added, as if Stiles would ever judge. He’d climbed through that window a time or two, at the risk of his own life. Melissa had almost taken his head off with a bat that one time. Good times.

“And?”  
“And nothing. He just sat there, in his chair. Just stared straight ahead. Didn’t acknowledge my presence in any way. He didn’t really react until I snapped my fingers in his face.”

“Then what?”

This was not a promising development. He hadn’t seen Scott yet today, but he was supposed to have his first session with Morrell last night, and he’d been anxious to hear how it went.

“Like I said, nothing. He stirred a bit, blinked sluggishly and then he smiled, said “nice to see you”, rose and went to bed. It was weird. If Scott’s broken, who’ll lead the pack?”

Stiles rubbed his face tiredly. “In a strange turn of events that honor has befallen me, would you believe it.”

Malia laughed, then sobered when Stiles didn’t exactly laugh along.

“You’re serious?”  
“Very.”  
“Why?”

It was a valid question. It was also a hurtful question. The astonished look on her face told him in clear terms that she wouldn’t have endorsed it had she been around. Not that Stiles wanted to have the responsibility of the pack, not at all. It would still be nice with a bit of faith. Especially since he had so little himself.

“I’ve been asking myself the same thing,” he replied neutrally. “You should ask the others. I didn’t exactly nominate myself for the job. Personally, I’m hoping and praying Scott will make a swift recovery.”

“Maybe Deaton can help,” suggested Malia. She’d broken the fork. No surprise there. Stiles knew she’d use her hands if it wasn’t socially frowned upon.

“That would require finding Deaton,” said Stiles with a tense grimace. “He’s been MIA for weeks on end. Besides, I don’t trust that guy. He’s just too-” Stiles struggled to find the right word, then landed on, “enigmatic”.

“He’s not missing anymore. We picked him up yesterday. At a Gas-N-Sip,” she added with a crooked grin, clearly very amused by her own witticism. Stiles was too busy processing this reveal to make much note of the joke. He learned it was perfectly possible to choke on air .

“You picked him up?!!”

Malia nodded. “I don’t know how or why he got in contact with Braeden. She doesn’t tell me anything. He told me even less, which is a rare accomplishment.”  
“That is what Deaton does best. Nothing but vagueness and riddles.”

Stiles couldn’t help it. Everything about the Veterinarian rubbed him the wrong way, from the manner he twirled Scott around his pinky finger, the withholding of information and the Zen-like state he always was in. How could anyone trust a guy that could stay perfectly serene in the face of Supernatural shit storms?

“No arguments from me. He’s not the sharing and caring type. I have no clue what he’s been up to or why he hitched a ride with us. But he’s back and Scott trusts him. He might be able to better help him.”

“Maybe.”

Stiles was not convinced. Arguing with Malia about it served little purpose, so he let it go. He was more interested in what Deaton had been up to. He was plotting different ways of finding out when Malia pulled him up by the arm.

“Hey, what’re you doing? Ever heard of asking nicely?”

Malia had tugged him out of his chair, the tray almost toppling to the floor.

“You’re gonna help me catch up with my schoolwork. Kira said we have a math test coming up.”

Stiles harrumphed, brushed off the worst of the half-chewed noodles he’d spat out earlier, then picked up his bag and the tray.

“What makes you think I want to help you at all?” he asked snidely. “For future reference, asking nicely works better than brute force. Just a tip.”

“I could always resort to blackmail,” said Malia mock-sweetly, twirling around giving him an almost maniacal grin.  
“Nice try. You’ve got nothing on me.”  
“Really? Nothing?”  
“Nada. Zilch. Zero.”

He returned the grin, feeling particularly cocky.

“Huh, okay.”

Malia walked on. Something about the way she sauntered off made him slightly uneasy. An uneasy Stiles was also a curious Stiles.

“Okay? That’s it? Am I to believe you just brought up the concept of blackmail on a whim, and not with anything specific in mind?”

“Maybe.” Malia grinned. “Maybe not. If I were you I’d come along and help me. Just in case.”  
“Maaaaliaaaaaaaaa,” Stiles whined. She tutted.

“Oh, put a plug in it, will you. You seem to like that.”

Malia walked on, casual as a summer breeze. Stiles for his part was battling a minor cardiac arrest. Plug? No. She couldn’t know. Could she?

“Are you coming?” she asked innocently, her eyebrows waggling suggestively in contrast. “You had no trouble coming last night at the very least. And you wonder why I went to Scott’s and Kira’s.” Malia tossed her hair like a lethal whip. Stiles felt it metaphorically slash him across the face. She sauntered off down the hall, miming dropping a mic for emphasis.

It really was a pity all the chimera holes on the lacrosse field had been filled in. Stiles sure could use one to disappear in.

 

 

***

 

“Your room is borderline creepy.”

It was a testament to how attuned Stiles had gotten to having Lydia around the house, that he no longer startled when she materialized seemingly out of thin air, usually with a backhanded insult in tow. He worked on in diligent concentration, knowing perfectly well that no matter what he said or did, Lydia would stay exactly as long as she wanted to, and not a minute less.

“Hello to you too,” he said offhandedly, voice muffled slightly by the marker in his mouth.

Lydia saunter inside, glancing around with a slight scrunch to her nose.

“If I didn’t know you, I’d expect to find a cage in your closet and a sowing machine in the corner, ready to stitch up a dress from people’s skin,” she offered, lifting one of the countless clippings and regarding it skeptically. “It’s got that crazed lair vibe down pat. I wouldn’t be surprised to find recipes for beef a la human or a how-to-dispose-of-bodies manual.”

Stiles smiled fondly. Lydia’s flair for the dramatics was endearing. Probably because it so closely mirrored his own. Sometimes he felt an almost sibling-like kinship with her. In a parallel universe they were probably twins.

“So, the girl with a grandma-like fascination for lavender and floral patterns is lecturing me on scary rooms? That’s rich,” he retorted with a shudder. “That lavender shit you’ve got going on in the bathroom downstairs scares me! And you should lay off the Hannibal-stuff. It might give you ideas, and we have enough on our plate as it is.”

Lydia laughed. “Touche. Not a problem. I only watched Hannibal for the homo-erotic subtext anyway. I don’t need it anymore. I have ringside seats to a far better show, right here.”

Her tone was innocent enough, but her eyes sparkled with what Stiles considered pure evil.

“What have you been up to?” he asked hurriedly, wanting to derail Lydia from that topic as soon as possible. He caught a glimpse of her through one of the few areas of his murder-board not currently covered in clippings, threads or messy scrawls. She looked professional and stylish in a pants suit and stilettos that was probably categorized as lethal weapons in a majority of states.

“I’ve been in a meeting with my dad and his legal legion. It was fun.”

“Fun, huh? You totally waltzed all over them, didn’t you.”

Lydia grinned, twirling a lock of her strawberry curls in lieu of a mustache. Once again Stiles praised all the lords he was on Team Lydia and not in her cross-hairs.

“I suspect it’s just a matter of days before I have my freedom back and all charges against my mom and the hospital are dropped. I’m threatening to sue him for damages. Turnabouts fair after all.”

She sat down primly on his bed, throwing cautious glances to the floor, sheets and surrounding areas. Stiles finished scrawling down a few keywords on his board, then walked around and dumped down in the swivel chair.

“Don’t worry, princess. Clean sheets.”

“Well, forgive me for making sure. It’s only a matter of time before I walk into something I’d either want to join or purge from my mind.”

“I’m not going to comment,” mumbled Stiles, cheeks red. “Your mind is dark and full of terrors. I don’t want any more details, nor do I want to give you any, so don’t even ask.”

“Fine,” smiled Lydia, folding her hands on her thighs. “Why don’t you first fill me in on todays gossip from school and then explain what mystery you’re attempting to crack.”

“You haven’t talked to Kira, then?” asked Stiles.

Lydia shook her head. “I’ve been holed up in a meeting room since 10 this morning. Has anything happened? Is it Scott? Didn’t he have a lesson with Morrell yesterday? How did it go?”

Stiles rubbed the back of his head, then slumped further down in the chair like an invertebrate. Why was it that when for once there wasn’t any looming supernatural threats he still felt stretched thin and worried. It somehow didn’t seem fair.

“I honestly don’t know. Scott wasn’t at school again today. He was definitely acting weird last night though according to my source.”

“Your source?” Lydia tilted her chin slightly and gave him a unamused glare. “We’re not detectives in a procedural cop show, Stiles. Can’t you just say Kira.”

“Nope, can’t do,” sing-songed Stiles. “Not when Kira isn't my source.”

He paused for dramatic effect. Lydia looked like she wanted to strangle him with her hair band. He’d be wise not to push it.

“Malia told me,” he blurted. To her credit Lydia was seldom surprised, which was probably why it took him a few seconds to recognize the reaction. Stiles wished he’d captured the moment for posterity.

“Malia?! She’s back? When? Why? Did she -”.

Stiles held up a hand and shook his head. “No. She didn’t find the Desert Wolf. She was pretty pissed about that, and bitter about wasting so much time with Braeden. I got the distinct feeling they didn’t get along all that well. That’s not the worst of it though.”

Lydia arched a perfectly groomed eyebrow. “What is?”

“Deaton’s back.”

This piece of information did not have the desired effect. “And?” she prompted, looking borderline confused. “Isn’t that a good thing? Deaton can probably help with Scott. He knows him better than Morrell.”

Stiles rubbed his eyes, letting out a frustrated half-groan.

“I don’t get it! How can you trust that guy so blindly? He disappears for weeks on end, without so much as a peep or signs of life, then turns up out of the blue, and we’re just gonna expect him to mend Scott’s frail mental bruises? I wouldn’t trust him to put as much as a band-aid on me. Did I mention he always knows what’s going on, yet keeps all the relevant information to himself like a warped Dumbledore.”

Lydia stared at him like he’d grown two heads. Perhaps he had. It would be a blessing, there was too many thoughts rambling around in his mind, a second head might actually be helpful.

“Is this what this is all about?” She gestured to the overflowing board. Stiles nodded.

“Partly. I find it odd that he’d just disappear without a trace and then turn up out of the blue, hitching a ride with Braeden like it was the most natural thing in the world. Why did he have her number? Why did she agree so readily? What has he been up to all this time? While he was gone dread doctors terrified the town, chimeras were created, a beast was defeated. We could’ve used his “expertise” before that all went down.”

“His absence is far from proof that he’s somehow involved,” argued Lydia. “You’d never stand a chance in court. It’s just theories and speculation. It hardly qualifies as circumstantial. Trust me, I’ve got some experience in this matter.”

“I know that.”

Stiles knew he sounded whiny and childish, but Deaton had always triggered warning signals in Stiles. With all that had been going on the past years, he wasn’t sure it was a good idea to ignore these gut feelings.

“That is also why I’m not throwing out accusations or jumping to conclusions. Hence the board. I don’t hurt anyone by looking into this, and what I put on my board or not, is entirely my business.”

Lydia sighed, then shrugged in that lofty manner she’d perfected by the sixth grade.

“For the record I think you’re wasting your time. That said, it’s yours to waste, but I will reserve the right to say I told you so when you find nothing. Now, let’s change the subject and talk about something we can both agree on.”

“Sure. Did you have anything particular in mind?”

What Stiles learned that day was to never give Lydia such open invitations. The downright naughty gleam in her eyes was a clear warning sign. Still, even with such warnings, she still managed to surprise him.

“Let's discuss Derek’s butt,” proclaimed Lydia businesslike, “tell me honestly, can you bounce quarters off that thing?”

“Lydia! For fuck’s sake!”

Stiles almost toppled off the chair. He fought to regain his balance and after much flailing, won. His grace however was a lost cause.

“Oh god, what is my life? You want to talk about Derek’s butt? Didn’t I just tell you no details!”

“Best friends share details,” said Lydia dismissively, leaning forward eagerly. “I’m also open to discussions on other parts of his fine anatomy if you feel like sharing.”

Stiles lost it completely when she waggled her eyebrows.

“You know you want to,” Lydia sing-songed. “I’m betting my Prada bag Scott refuses to hear anything beyond handholding. So, I’m graciously volunteering my services.”

Stiles had to admit she was right. Scott had hid behind his pillow as soon as the topic of Derek, feelings and, god forbid, sexy time, was broached. Also, Derek did have an ass to die for. It was worthy of both hymns and praises, and Lydia appeared like a devout congregation.

“So?” probed Lydia. “Butt, quarters, bounce. I’m very interested in the correlation between these three factors.”

Stiles caved ridiculously fast.

“I can confirm your hypothesis is very much correct.”

Lydia clapped, squealed excitedly and leaned closer, eyes alight. “Tell me _everything_ ,” she implored.

“I have not literally bounced a quarter off it, though I’m tempted now. I can however confirm it’s very firm. _Very_.”

Lydia nodded solemnly, as if they were discussing important scientific matters and not raunchy details of his could-be-model boyfriend.

“I’m a little envious, to be honest,” sighed Lydia. “Don’t get me wrong, I’m very content with being single at the moment, and I’m not really looking for a boyfriend at this point. I do miss sex, though. Being cooped up in an asylum greatly hindered my sexual adventures. It makes me nostalgic for Jackson.” Lydia sighed deeply. “He also had a very quarter-bouncing ass and was very accommodating when my hands wandered in that direction.” She grinned wickedly. “Did you ever check him out? In the shower or locker room?”

“Lydia!”

Stiles grabbed a book off his desk and hid his face. Talking about Derek was one thing. He was entitled to that in a way. This however… Nope. So much nope!

“What? It’s a perfectly valid question. You saw his butt almost daily, I’m sure you formed an opinion.”

“You’re evil. Do I have to answer?”

“Yes.”

“And if I don’t?”

“I will find a way to punish you and you’ll regret it profusely.”

Resistance was futile. He knew that. Everyone who’d ever crossed paths with Lydia Martin knew that. Stiles also knew that Jackson Whittemore did in fact possess a very fine and quarter-bouncing ass.

“You’re right,” he mumbled, cheeks aflame. “His ass was spectacular.”

Lydia nodded. “His greatest asset,” she dead-panned. Stiles snorted.

“Derek made the same exact pun the other day. Only in relation to my ass.”

Lydia cocked her head. “He’s not wrong. Your ass is very fine indeed. Especially now that you’re not hiding it in those hideously baggy jeans of yours.”

Stiles chocked on his own breath.

“Lydia, honestly! I love you, I do, but this discussion ends here.”

Lydia bristled, crossing her arms again.

“Fine, be a prude, Stiles. I know you’re not shy in the bedroom. Like I said, _paper thin walls_. I hear stuff and I have a very vivid imagination.”

 

Lydia’s grin froze suddenly, taking on a strained grimace. Her eyes were trained on something in the hallway. _Someone_ in the hallway.

“My dad’s right behind me, isn’t he?”asked Stiles flatly.

Lydia nodded. Stiles contemplated flinging himself from the window.

“ _Shears_!” wailed his dad, in a high pitched voice. Stiles slowly turned to watch a white-faced sheriff pivot slowly, index fingers now deeply buried in his ears. “I need shears,” he continued. “Every time I go near this room, I end up traumatized. I’ll be deaf and mutilated within the month at this rate.”

“Serves you right for eavesdropping,” yelled Stiles after his retreating back. It was doubtful his dad heard him. He was chanting “I can’t hear a thing” over and over with an increasing volume. Not long after they heard the door slam shut and his car start.

"We didn't even talk about anything explicit."

“That's parents, for you,” said Lydia cheerfully. Stiles threw her a withering glare. This whole ordeal had in fact reminded him of another embarrassing episode.

“I think Malia heard us last night,” he admitted. Lydia sobered immediately.

“She knows? About you and Derek? I thought you wanted to tell her in person.”

“I did. That was the plan. It’s an excellent plan, but even excellent plans falls through when unknown factors mess things up. I had no idea she was back in town. She just turned up at lunch today, totally out of the blue. She admitted to being at Scott’s house and Kira’s last night. She never said she came here, but she knew about Derek and I.”

“How did she seem?”

Stiles shrugged. “Okay enough to tease me about it. She spent an hour throwing innuendos and making terrible puns. It was a bit traumatizing. That’s a good sign, right?”

“Oh lord, I should definitely talk to her,” mumbled Lydia. “If she’s teasing you, she might be hiding her pain. It’s a girl thing,” she added airily. Stiles’ confusion was probably written all over his face.

“Awesome,” he mumbled. Yet another relationship he needed to fix. The list was getting depressingly long. For the first time in recorded history Stiles longed for a supernatural crisis. It would probably be far less stressful.

 

 

***

 

“So…”

Stiles trailed off, fingers tapping his thighs nervously. He had no idea what to say. He was back for another lesson with Morrell feeling very much like a kid who’d neglected to do his homework and was being silently berated for it.

The jar with the clear liquid he was supposed to set on fire with his mind sat on top of the desk between them, mocking him. He’d failed. Not so much as a faint ember or hint of smoke. Nada. Zilch. He’d tried every day, sometimes losing track of time for hours, but the result was still painfully negative.

So far Morrell hadn’t said anything. She just sat there, posture immaculate as always, fingers threaded together like a fine-masked knitwear. Stiles could handle lots of things reasonably well. Annoying teachers, idiots, Theo, boring curriculum, borderline crazy lacrosse coaches, supernatural threats of all kinds. He’d bitch and moan, but he would handle it. Not always with grace or success for that matter. But he could bullshit his way out of almost anything. Silence however? Not something he was all that good at. Neither was magic, apparently, which made the lessons with Morrell extra grating.

Another minute passed without a word spoken. She did blink occasionally, which meant she was technically alive. Sometimes he did wonder if she was truly human or some sort of artificial being. He noticed her chest rising and falling, indicating breaths were being taken, so yeah human - ish.

Stiles met her eyes, raising his eyebrows all the way into his too long fringe, trying to convey that hey, he was ready for some life lessons. She tilted her head slightly to the right, but that was it. Stiles had reached the end of his rope.

“Honestly? You’re not going to say anything? Not even about that?”

He gestured wildly at the jar, then to Morrell, before going back to the jar.

“I’ve failed. Epically, I guess is an accurate estimate. Aren’t you gonna like, berate me or something? Instill some wisdom upon my poor novice self? Or am I supposed to like tune into your thoughts telepathically? You’ve got to give me something to work with, otherwise I’m outta here.”

Morrell didn’t reply. Instead she opened one of her desk drawers and pulled out the same pillow she’d give him last time. Stiles grabbed it with a huff, then shoved it behind his back with a snarled “thanks”. Her chair really was a torture device. When he looked up again, Morrell was smiling.

“How are you?” she asked pleasantly, as if the last few minutes hadn’t transpired. Okay, sure. Whatever. At least she was talking now.

“In a word - frustrated.”

Morrell nodded. “Understandable,” she commented, prodding lightly at the jar, then leaned forward and sniffed its content. She hummed in contentment. “You’re making progress.”

Stiles let out a snort of disbelief. The liquid was just as transparent and inflammable as the day she gave it to him.

“Yeah, sure I am.” His voice dripped sarcasm.

“It might not be apparent to you,” continued Morrell, expertly ignoring Stiles’ huffs. “Trust me on that. You shouldn’t be so hard on yourself. Mastering this gift is hard.”

“So far it seems impossible,” grumbled Stiles, irritation flaring up inside him like a geyser. He startled violently when the umbrella stand by the door toppled over with a bang.

“Holy shit, what the fuck!”

“You’re still guided by your feelings,” said Morrell calmly. “Changing that pattern takes time. Don’t be discouraged. Besides, in your case I think the close connection between your emotions and the spark this ability might be a strength rather than a weakness. Perhaps the word “control” is the wrong one. I’ve begun to suspect your pursuit of control might be hindering you more than it’s helping. Perhaps it’s more about recognizing and guiding your ability. To someone like you who, I’m guessing is somewhat of a stickler for the right definitions and terms for things, what you associate with “control” isn’t necessarily what we’re interested in achieving. Your spark is not a misbehaving dog that we need to teach a set of ques to control their behavior. Instead, you should think of yourself more like someone with a raw talent that needs to be nurtured and honed to reach its potential. The lines are blurred anyway. This is hardly an exact science after all.”

“Is it science at all?” asked Stiles, staring wide-eyed at the scattered umbrellas. “I did that, didn’t I?” He gestured limply at the mess. Morrell nodded.

“Science, not-science. Does it really matter?”

Stiles shrugged. “I guess not. A chemical formula might make it easier to understand, is all. Then again, me and chemistry were never on the best of terms. I blame Harris.”

“You’re still struggling with the concept of belief as a catalyst, is that it?”

Stiles rubbed his face in resignation, then let his arms fall heavily into his lap. “I dunno. Maybe. Probably. I get what you’re saying. That essentially I just need to believe it can happen and then it will, no matter how illogical it is. And I’m trying, I really am. It’s just - “

He struggled to find the words. Mainly because he wasn’t sure he even knew what he wanted to say.

“It’s just - I thought things would be easier now. With the Dread Doctors gone and all. In a freak turn of events I now almost long for something monstrous and supernatural to help clear my mind. Which makes me crazy, right?”

Morrell leaned back in her chair, regarding him through heavy lashes. “Not at all. For the last year, even longer, dealing with supernatural threats has been your baseline, your “normal” if you will. Complicated, dangerous, scary and yet very hands-on. Very concrete. With those elements gone, at least for the time being, other issues have come to the forefront. Different kinds of issue, more tied to your relationships and perhaps also your personal struggles.”

Stiles squirmed nervously, trying and failing to find a comfortable position. She was hitting too close to home for comfort.

“ Am I wrong in guessing some of your emotional distress somehow pertains to Scott McCall?”

“Partly,” confirmed Stiles. “I’m very worried about him. He’s acting strange. Zoning out. Going missing at times. He’s removed from, well everything really. I’m really hoping your talks with him can help. I know you can’t disclose anything, but please, at least tell me he showed up last night.”

Morrell shook her head.

“No, sadly he didn’t. He rang and canceled our appointment. He said he had to work.”

“Oh, okay.” Stiles felt hugely disappointed. “That’s a bit odd. Malia said he was home last night, though. It doesn’t matter. You’ll see him another night, right?”

“I did suggest a new time. He said he’d let me know. I’d appreciate if you’d encourage him to attend.”

Stiles nodded, feeling the familiar tug in his gut that always seem to suggest trouble ahead. He had a really bad feeling about this.

“I was wondering… can I ask you something? You probably have more experience with this sort of thing than me, and well…”

He paused momentarily, weighing his options. Truthfully, Stiles wasn’t entirely sure he could trust Morrell. She was Deaton’s sister after all, and he was all kinds of shady. Yet, it wouldn’t hurt to ask. There was no rule saying he had to take her answer as absolute truth anyway, and Stiles had a habit of questioning everything no matter the source. Skepticism was probably a byproduct of growing up with a dad in law enforcement. It had proved extraordinarily handy when dealing with the supernatural.

Morrell tilted her head. Stiles interpreted that as a yes.

“Is it possible to become, I dunno, like infected with something supernatural? And I don’t mean through a bite and that kind of stuff. Like if you’re touched by smoky tendrils of something nasty, cooked up in a lab by fringe scientists with a penchant for human experiments?”

He wrung his hands nervously, terrified of the answer.

“That was both oddly specific and yet frustratingly vague.” Morrell cocked her head looking uncharacteristically curious. “Can you elaborate?”

Stiles hesitated. He’d only mentioned this to Derek, and he trusted him with every fiber of his being. Confiding in Morrell was a leap. Yet, she didn’t need to know all the details. For all he knew, this wasn’t even real and just a crazy paranoid conspiracy theory cooked up in his own over-imaginative brain.

“The beast the Doctors created using Allison’s body. It touched someone. I know it’s gone now, but could it have like transferred something to this person? Is there a way to like, test that? Sort of like testing for STDs or whatnot?”

Morrell was silent for a while. Stiles squirmed in his seat, sending the pillow to the floor not just once but twice. A couch would definitely be better. Perhaps she’d relent if they had to keep this up long-term?

“Are you referring to Scott?” she finally asked. It was impossible to tell by her voice if she was concerned or not. She’d make a hell of a poker player.

“Maybe. Maybe not. Does it matter?”

“Hard to tell. The beast was a successful chimera, a combination of a human and several parts of supernatural DNA. A pure human coming into contact with it might react poorly, over time developing similar symptoms like the failed chimeras. Odd behavior, tendency towards violence, bleeding mercury and so on. This is pure speculation on my part, of course. A supernatural creature on the other hand - those effects are harder to predict.”

“Why?”

“More variables,” replied Morrell airily. “A bitten werewolf was once entirely human and after being subjected to supernatural DNA he or she essentially became a chimera - a mix of human and werewolf. Both sets of DNA are still in the body, just fused into something new. A born werewolf however is born with one set of DNA. If someone like Derek came into contact with something like what you described, his body would likely fight it like a virus and kill it. A bitten werewolf however - that substance could influence his human DNA or his supernatural DNA. It would essentially create an unbalance. What the result would be the end, is hard to say. He could fight it off, like the flu, or it could end up causing permanent change. Strange mutations. Perhaps even death.”

“Great, now I’m even more worried.”

Stiles slumped down in the chair, running a nervous hand through his already messy hair.

“This is all hypothetical, Stiles. It’s not like there are reported cases of this. So far, Scott hasn’t shown any signs of excess violence. He seems depressed, yes. And that could be it. It doesn’t have to be because of his contact with the beast.”

Stiles thought of the black swirl in Scott’s eyes, but didn’t dare voice his concern. He’d definitely be keeping a closer watch on him, though.

They lapsed into silence again. Stiles stared at the jar, his mind a whirlwind of thoughts, theories and concerns. There was no way he’d be able to make the liquid burn today.

“There’s no use trying that today,” he said, gesturing at it. “My mind’s a mess. I’ll take it home again, try some more.”

“Fine.” Morrell smiled almost sympathetically. “Is there perhaps anything else weighing on your mind, besides your friend?”

“That’s an understatement,” mumbled Stiles, rolling his eyes.  
“Care to share?”  
He actually laughed at that, albeit stripped of mirth. He sounded deranged. He probably was.

“Yeah, I’m sure you’d be delighted to hear about the shit twirling around in my nuggin.” Stiles raised one hand and before he could talk himself out of it, he began counting down his woes one finger at a time.

“For one my ex-girlfriend came back without warning, probably caught Derek and yours truly mid-coitus and I’m terrified I’ve broken her heart. My dad seems borderline traumatized by my relationship with Derek. I’ve hidden our gardening shears and have poured out all the bleach. Don’t even ask.” He took a deep breath,then continued to word vomit.

“Lydia is oddly fascinated with my sex life, while battling her dad for her freedom. She’s also got a crush but refuses to date him because she’s convinced she’d hurt him, and to mask her pain she’s slowly turning our house into a lavender hell hole. Scott is slipping into a depressed gloom which requires daily search parties and restless nights on my part. Your lovely brother is back in town, no word on where he’s been or what he’s been up to which isn’t suspicious at all. Theo and the Chimeras are lurking in the wings, probably plotting world domination, which we should all fear because the guy is all kinds of nuts. Derek’s clone, let me repeat that: clone, is out there somewhere. Maybe. We’re trying to find him, so far no luck. Which again makes me wonder if I’m a clone and that is some existential shit right there. SO yeah, I’m peachy.”

When he was done he felt windy and exhausted. Also slightly lighter for it.

Morrell jotted something down on a piece of paper in front of her, which was odd. She never took notes during a session, but Stiles was too wiped to ask. After a while, she looked back up, her usual intense stare in place.

“You said you worried about being a clone. What did you mean by that?”

He shouldn’t have said that. It had just slipped out among all the other issues that preoccupied him these days. It had been nagging at the back of his mind for a long time, but one emergency after another had kept it at arms length. With the revelation that Derek also had a clone, possibly still out there, it had come crashing back in a big way.

“I don’t really want to talk about it,” he mumbled, glancing at the clock on the wall. Crap. He still had more than 20 minutes left of his session.

“Understandable, yet probably necessary.” Morrell’s voice was oddly gentle. “If you’re questioning your identity, that could be a major block for your spark. It’s worth exploring, however uncomfortable it might be.”

A memory of Scott and Peter’s shocked faces gradually coming into focus as streams of bandages and gauze were untangled from his face pressed to the forefront. You knew some serious shit was afoot when Peter Hale looked shell-shocked. That was probably an old proverb or something. Stiles still remembered catching a glimpse of himself crouched on the floor, eyes big as saucers and a nasty gash across his abdomen. Later he’d seen that body crumple to dust in the school hallway. To this day Stiles still wondered who really died that day. Was this his real body? Was he really Stiles or some bizarre replica. A result of the Dread Doctors and their creepy injections?

“I don’t want to talk about it,” he repeated through clenched teeth. Morrell looked disappointed, but didn’t press the issue.

“Very well, but know that I’m willing to listen when you’re ready. I suspect this is in relation to what transpired with the possession. If you’re having doubts relating to identity and self, I recommend you address it sooner rather than later.”

Stiles didn’t comment. Just glared sullenly at his hands. At the back of the room the umbrellas began trashing around on the floor, bumping into cabinets and the door. Morrell sighed.

“Point taken, I’ll let the issue lie for now. Please think about until next time. And work on the jar. I know you can do it.”

“Does that mean we’re done for the day?” asked Stiles, eager to get out of there. She held up a finger, shaking it slightly.

“Just one more thing. Did you say Alan was back in town?”  
Stiles nodded, mouthed pursed in a sour grin. “Yeah, he called Braeden and asked her to pick him up somewhere out of state, I forgot to ask where. They rolled back into town yesterday.”

“Braeden?”

Morrell sounded genuinely confused. For a brief second Stiles could’ve sworn she seemed almost taken aback. A blink and she was back to her usual professionalism. Perhaps he’d just imagined the whole thing?

“Yeah. Malia’s been traveling with her for a few weeks, looking for The Desert Wolf. I have no clue where Deaton has been or what he’s been up to. He wouldn’t tell Malia anything. I haven’t spoken to him yet. Can’t say I’m looking forward to it either. No offense or anything, but he’s about as helpful as a Sphinx.”

“Interesting.”  
“Not the word I’d choose, but to each their own.”

Stiles rose form the chair, tossing the pillow back at her. She caught it deftly midair.

“Keep practicing with the jar, Stiles. Remember to use your anchors to find balance.”

“I’m trying. I’ll keep trying,” he promised.

It was all he could do. There was no such thing as guarantees in Beacon Hills. That was about the only thing he was certain of.

 


	9. Chapter 9

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is from Malia's POV

She wasn’t quite sure what she was doing here.

Malia bit her lower lip, peering up at Kira’s second floor window. She was hiding by the garage, carefully hidden by shadows and one particularly large rhododendron tree, contemplating whether she should bother her or not. Kira had been her usual bubbly self when she'd discovered Malia literally hanging by a claw beneath her window the night before. In the span of a few minutes she’d been pulled up and inside, thoroughly hugged, then nestled into a ridiculous amount of pillows, a steaming mug of tea in her hands. Malia didn’t even like tea. She liked Kira, though. And the cookies had been good. She’d eaten most of them, needing something to occupy her mouth while she sorted through the traumatizing discoveries at Stiles’ house.

Stiles and Derek.

It hadn’t surprised her nearly as much as it should have. That didn’t mean it hadn’t genuinely hurt. Stiles and she had broken up, she knew that fact. Accepted it, and knew they'd never be an item again. Stiles wasn’t cheating. He would never do that, Malia knew that without a doubt. And eventually Stiles would move on, find someone new. Only, she hadn't expected it to happen this fast. In a way it confirmed all her lingering suspicions. That Stiles had never really cared about her the same way she cared about him. Had he cared at all? Or had it just been pity? Had he stayed with her out of some sort of warped duty?

Malia had left without letting Stiles or Derek know she was there. They were - _busy_. It would be rude to ruin that. So, she’d dropped down more or less soundlessly and hightailed out of there. She’d gone to Scott first, but that was a total bust. Kira had been the natural next step. Somehow going home to her childhood bedroom, still decorated with dolls and cat poster had felt wrong. Even if she wasn’t yet ready to talk about what she’d discovered, she still craved company.

She shouldn’t have worried. Kira talked enough for the both of them. She’d rambled on and on about everything that had happened since Malia left, including her trip to Mexico, finding the real Derek, the horrors of the Dread Doctors and what they’d done to all of them. She’d skirted around the topic of Stiles and Derek expertly. Malia had been kind of impressed. Normally Kira was everything but subtle. Perhaps she didn’t know? Somehow that comforted her a little.

They’d fallen asleep a few hours later, the tea untouched. Malia had left at the crack of dawn, feeling marginally better. She’d managed to keep her cool around Stiles at school, resorting to teasing him rather than showing how much she was hurting. He’d kept asking her if she was okay, and seemed genuinely sorry. Malia was sorry too.

And decidedly not okay.

Which was why she was back at Kira’s house. Still mostly unsure what she was looking for, just that she couldn’t go home. Not yet. She glanced up at the window to Kira’s room. It looked dark and deserted. Malia took a deep breath, trying to catch Kira’s scent to find out if she was home or not. It was useless. The whole place smelled like her and her parents.

Something else caught her attention, though. Malia whipped her head around, staring down the street. A row of cars were parked by the curb. A dog barked somewhere further down the road. For a split second she was sure she’d caught a familiar scent, but the next second it was gone, as if someone had turned off a switch. She squinted into the darkness, half expecting to see something moving between the trees. A minute of intense glaring later and still she saw nothing.

“Should I be worried a werecoyote is lurking outside our house?”

Malia startled. She never startled. She turned her head slowly, not sure what to expect. Mrs. Yukimura warm smile took her by surprise.

“No?”

She unintentionally phrased it as a question. Mrs. Yukimura regarded her shrewdly for a few seconds, then laughed. Her laughter was just like Kira’s. Infectious and trilling.

“Come on inside. My husband has just made a fresh batch of cookies.”

It was the magic word. Malia trailed after her without protest.

“Please come in, dear. It’s such a rare treat when my daughter’s friends use the door. I feel like we should mark the occasion in some fashion. How about a lovely cup of tea?”

“Awesome,” replied Malia. She’d suffer through the tea if the cookies were as good as the ones she’d gotten last night. The smell wafting towards her was very promising.

She stepped through the front door, idly wondering if she should remove her shoes or not. She kept them on when Mrs. Yukimura made no sign of taking off her own. She ushered her inside, all smiles, then shut the front door with considerable difficulty. Malia noticed the hinges were almost torn off the door frame. She arched an eyebrow, fighting the urge to ask. She was getting better at filtering her thoughts. She was making progress.

Mrs. Yukimura clearly picked up on her curiosity, though and shook her head, almost fondly.

“We haven’t gotten around to fixing that yet,” she said conversationally, leading Malia through to the living room, pushing her down into a very soft couch. “I’m half tempted to insist he help with the repairs, but I’m afraid he’d do even more damage. Unintentionally, of course,” she added with a wave of her hand. “He was very upset at the time, these things happen. Apparently.”

“I’m not following.”

That was nothing new. The drawback of the years she'd apparently spent as a coyote. It meant Malia had missed out on everything from scandalous celebrity gossip to world news. Being away for a few weeks meant she was even behind on the local front.

“Stiles, dear,” said Mrs. Yukimura, casually. “He accidentally blew the door half off the wall when he learned we’d found Derek in Mexico. Ah, here’s Ken with the cookies and the tea.”

Malia zoned out after that. At one point a steaming mug was placed in her hands and a tray shoved in her face. She picked up a cookie on autopilot, but made no signs of eating it. The information about Stiles and his worry about Derek had paralyzed her. Clearly, there had always been something between them. Something she hadn’t fully picked up on, or ignored perhaps? Had the others been laughing about her behind her back? Had Stiles? Somehow she didn’t think so, but the doubts still lingered.

The Yukimuras seemed perfectly content to blather on without too much input from her. In all honesty it was all getting to be a bit too much. Sweat gathered in her palms, her breath hitching. She needed to get out of here. She felt trapped again, caged in, and claustrophobic.

“Mom? Dad? What’s all this? _Malia_?”

Malia snapped out of her funk when Kira suddenly appeared in the living room, her Marvel tote bag hanging casually off one shoulder. She looked confused and flushed in equal measures.  
  
“Kira dear, we found Malia loitering in the bushes and invited her in for tea. Will you join us?”

Mrs. Yukimura patted the couch next to her. Kira’s father jumped up and all but ran to the kitchen, returning in a flash with another cup and plate.

“Always with the tea and cookies,” muttered Kira somewhat resigned. She crossed the room, grabbed Malia’s limp hand and literally dragged her to her feet. “Sorry, but we’ve got to study. Malia has some homework to catch up on. She’s been out of town for a while.”

“I’ll bring up a tray then,” suggested Mr. Yukimura, all grins. “Don’t hesitate to ask for help if it’s History. You have an assignment to make up for,” he added with a stern nod. Malia paled. Kira on her part shook her head vehemently.

“No need to bring anything, thanks anyway. Come on, Malia. Let’s get started on Algebra, alright. No History,” she threw over her shoulder at her dad. He looked slightly crestfallen.

Malia followed without protest, still carrying the mug. She made a point of ignoring the broken front door.

“I don’t even take Algebra,” she protested. Kira shook her head.

“Doesn’t much matter, I just wanted to get away from them. We should talk.”

 

*

 

Kira’s room was nice. Grown up. No silly puppy posters or frilly dolls. No flowery wallpaper or stuffed animals in a heap on the bed. Instead, there was a nice dresser, a bookshelf and paintings of trees. No pink in sight. She really should do something about her own bedroom. Make it hers again instead of the shrine to the girl she no longer was.

Kira gestured for Malia to take the bed, while she dropped her bag on her desk. She disappeared inside her walk-in closet, and Malia could hear her rummaging around for a little while. She emerged not long after, having changed into a pair of soft-looking sweatpants and a tank top. She wordlessly handed Malia an energy drink, then dumped down in the armchair. Malia set aside the mug of still untouched tea and accepted the can gratefully.

For a few minutes no one said anything. They simply sipped their drinks, exchanging nervous glances.

“My parents don’t allow me to drink these.” Kira nodded at the can in her hand. “They seem to think I’m hyper enough as it is. I’m not feeling all that cheery these days. They help me act more normal.”

Malia took another sip. She’d never felt normal, even for a second since she turned back. If an energy drink could help, she’d gladly drink a hundred.

“So,” said Kira, twirling the can nervously from one hand to the other. “You wanna talk about it?”  
Malia shook her head. “No.”  
“Okay.”

Another pause. Malia had almost finished her drink. She contemplated just leaving, perhaps out the window to avoid more tea and cookies. Also, that would prevent her from seeing more of Stiles’ handiwork.

“Is it Stiles?”

For all off Malia’s bluntness, Kira wasn’t that far behind her. Usually, she found it refreshing. Today, it hit a nerve.

“Maybe,” said Malia evasively. “Why are you not feeling all that cheery? Is it because of Scott?”

Now it was Kira’s turn to squirm.

“Maybe,” she parroted.

“So, do you want to talk about?”

“About as much as you want to talk about Stiles.”

Not at all then. Malia shrugged. She could respect that. It wasn’t as if she knew what to say anyway. That was more Lydia’s table.

“I still think we should though,” whispered Kira, voice wavering. “Talk about them, I mean. This is killing me, and I have a feeling you can relate. It’s painful. So fucking painful, it’s tearing me apart.”

Malia was a bit confused. No, scratch that. She was very confused. Nothing but confusion in fact. It probably showed. Her level of discretion and diplomacy was sub-par even on good days.

“Is it because there’s something wrong with Scott?” she asked. Kira let out a sound half between a sob and a snort.

“Sort of.”

She paused for a moment, looking like she was struggling to find the right words. Malia knew the feeling well.

“You know about the beast, right? That Valack, Gerard Argent and the Dread Doctors used Allison’s dead body to create a chimera. It was a shock for all of us. Scott took it worse than any of us. It -”

She paused again, looking like she was fighting back tears.

“I knew he loved her. I knew that he would always on some level love her, even if they grew apart, met other people and all that. I watched him hold her as she died. I knew what I was getting myself into. I knew I had to let Scott come around in his own pace. That it would take him time to mourn and get over Allison. I never expected her to momentarily come back from the dead and catapult him back to scratch.”

She wiped away angry tears, shaking her had as if clearing out cobwebs.

“I sound like a jealous girlfriend. I don’t mean to. I truly don’t. It’s just - in the wake of all this, I get that he’s messed up and that he needs time. But he shuts me out, he doesn’t call, he never instigates anything anymore. It’s like I’m erased from his mind most of the time.”

Kira downed the rest of her drink, crushed the can and threw it angrily in the bin next to her desk. Judging by the sound it made on impact, that wasn’t the first energy drink she’d consumed lately.

“I thought we’d balance out eventually, you know. That he’d come to care as much as I did when he got over her death. We’ve not just taken a step back, though. I could handle that. It would require more patience, but I think he’s worth it. Now it’s as if Scott’s totally fallen off the board. I know I have to face it. To acknowledge it, but it hurts so fucking bad!”

“Stiles never loved me like I love him,” blurted Malia.

For a minute they just started at each other. Then Kira cursed and stalked into her closet again. She returned with more energy drinks and a huge bag of gummy worms.

“Might as well just stuff ourselves with candy and curse our bad luck in love,” she said almost bitterly. Malia eagerly accepted the candy.

“So,” said Kira between mouthfuls. “You know about Stiles and Derek, then?”

Malia nodded with a grimace. “I went to see him last night and got quite the show when I peeked in his window.”

“Oh lord!” Kira looked caught between horror and intrigue. “That must have been a bit of a shock. I know he planned on telling you in person the moment you got back. He kept insisting that wasn’t the sort of thing you said in a text. None of us knew you were coming back now, though. So he’s not a complete insensitive idiot.”

“No, I guess not. Just an idiot.”

Malia attempted a smile. She suspected it looked more intimidating than reassuring. “I didn’t even know until we were on the road. I should’ve said something, but I forgot.”

“It would still have hurt, though,” said Kira sympathetically. “The facts are still the same - he’s moved on. With a dude.” She arched an eyebrow. “Is that an issue?”

Malia shook her head. “I don’t care about that. I get it. I think lots of girls are hot, too. It’s not a big deal.”

“Really?”

“Sure. I think you’re hot. I liked dancing with you in Mexico.”

Kira turned an interesting shade of crimson. “Oh,” she said.

Malia chewed her lower lip, her mind a jumbled mess of contradicting emotions. She’d known on some level that Stiles had never been as invested as she was. The way they drifted apart more than broke up was a testament to that. It was Stiles who’d pulled away, perhaps not consciously. He’d shied away from her when he struggled with Donovan. If he’d truly loved her, he’d come to her. But he hadn’t.

Malia looked over at Kira, suddenly desperate for answers. Confirmation. Reassurance.

“I never noticed. Or perhaps I just ignored it. That he liked Derek, I mean. I feel so stupid now.”

Kira smiled sadly. “Don’t. You’ve got no reason to. Besides, you should probably talk to Lydia rather than me, she’s been around since the start. She said that in hindsight it was rather obvious. That they always seemed to gravitate towards each other. But I don’t think either of them really knew, or understood what it meant. And he does love you. He never faked that.”

“But he’s not in love with me.”

Kira sighed. “Not in the way you want, no. Just like Scott probably isn’t in love with me the way he was with Allison. We should all probably take a page out of Lydia’s book.”

Malia raised an eyebrow, not following. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

Kira shrugged. “Parrish. He’s stupidly in love with her to the point of worship. Kind of like me with Scott and you with Stiles. Lydia’s got a crush on him, she admitted as much. But at the same time, she knows they’d never be balanced. So she’s keeping her distance.”

Malia considered that for a moment. She understood it on some level, on the other hand it sounded lonely.

“Is she happy, though?” she asked.

“No,” said Kira. “She’s miserable. But she doesn’t think it’s fair to him.”

“Love isn’t fair at all,” said Malia.

“No, it most definitely isn’t.”

They ate the rest of the gummy worms in miserable silence.

 


	10. Chapter 10

As soon as Stiles woke the following morning he knew it would be one of those days. The kind where he’d end up regretting getting out of bed. In fact, he regretted it pretty much the second his toes touched the floor and be promptly stepped on a cap belonging to one of his many marker pens. It wasn’t on par with stepping on Legos but it wasn’t far behind.

He was in other words on to a lousy start. By the time he reached the kitchen Stiles was seriously wondering if the Gods were trying to tell him something. His head was pounding, he’d stubbed his toe on his desk, almost slipped in the shower and to crown it all one of the shoulder straps on his backpack tore when he picked it up. Books, papers and pens had exploded in all directions like an academic dirt bomb.

Entering the kitchen his mood was pitch black and in dire need of coffee even blacker. He steered past his dad who was nibbling on a toast and headed straight for the coffeemaker.

“A good morning to you too, son,” remarked his dad, peering over his reading glasses. Stiles answered in a series of huffs and growls.

“Someone’s cheerful,” observed Lydia coolly without looking up from the newspaper in front of her. Stiles honestly didn’t know why she was even up this early. If he didn’t need to go to school, he’d sleep until dinnertime.

“You also look like shit,” she added, turning a page. “You really should get more sleep.”

Stiles slammed his cup down on the table and dumped down in a chair, his only response a reproachful glower. The table wobbled slightly. Lydia and his dad lifted their cups in perfect unison, preventing any spills. Normally that would amuse him. Today it pushed all the wrong buttons of which Stiles apparently had many.

“Lydia’s right, Stiles. You look terrible.”

“Thanks, just what I needed to hear on this craptastic day,” he mumbled, stealing a toast from his dad’s plate. He coated it with a liberal layer of jam. A huge dollop fell off when he lifted it, and pointedly stained the somewhat faded face of Pikachu’s on his t-shirt. He wasn’t even surprised.

“Any nightmares?”

His dad sounded worried. Not without cause. Stiles had been plagued with nightmares after the whole possession thing. He was sleeping better these days. Only occasionally would he wake troubled by lingering visions of dark smoke and bloody hand prints. There hadn’t been anything like that this night, though. Truthfully, he didn’t really know why he felt this bad. Perhaps things were just catching up with him. Or, he thought with a grimace, his talk with Morrell had stirred something that needed to be sorted out, sooner rather than later. Basically, he felt like he was trapped in an endless circle of crap.

“No, no nightmares. Just a lot on my plate, I guess. Worried about Scott, being interim pack-head, heaps of homework and frustrating magic-lessons. It’s just piling up, is all.”

His dad nodded. “I get that. Perhaps you should skip lacrosse practice today, give yourself some time to catch up with homework or relax?”

It was tempting. Very tempting. But sadly entirely out of the question, unless he wanted to endure the wrath of Coach. Newsflash - he didn’t.

“Can’t,” he said between bites. “Coach will have my hind. Apparently I’m an integral to the “backbone of this team”, which gives you a pretty accurate picture of the state of our squad. Scott’s been more absent than present lately and Kira’s head is all over the place. Basically, Liam’s the only decent player at the moment, and he can’t do it all. It doesn’t help with Greenberg’s cousin in goal either.” He shuddered. “I’m trying to get Danny to rejoin. It would take the pressure off a bit.”

“You could always recruit the chimeras,” suggested Lydia, a shrewd smile in place. Stiles sprayed coffee over most of the table, Lydia’s paper included. She wiped it away with a frown.

Stiles stared at her incredulously while his dad rose with a heavy sigh, probably to locate a rag or paper towels. “I’m choosing to interpret that as a poor attempt at humor. Theo will never join the team if I have anything to say about it. I’d rather call Jackson back from London.”

“Now, there’s a thought.” Lydia smiled almost fondly. Stiles regretted his words. It was a sad state of affairs when he longed for Jackson Whittemore’s presence.

“No chimeras!” he growled. Lydia threw her hands up.

“Don’t judge them all based on Theo is all I’m saying. Hayden is nice and Corey seems reasonable.”

“Costco is also “nice” and “reasonable”, doesn’t mean I like it. I somehow can’t see you settle for that.”

“Kids!”

The warning note in the Sheriff’s voice effectively shut them up. Stiles continued to eat his toast as messily as possible. He was almost done with it when Lydia cleared her throat pointedly. An immaculately manicured finger pointed at the lump of leather by the door.

“What on earth is that?” she asked shrilly.

“My new backpack.”

“Excuse me? That is a designer purse! There’s nothing “back” or “pack” about it.”

Stiles flailed, sending a shower of crumbs all over the kitchen. His dad sighed long-suffering.

“The shoulder strap snapped, I needed something to carry all my books in, alright.”

Lydia shook her head, lips pursed. “No,” she said, voice dangerously low. “No, that is not “alright”. Not even by a long shot.”

“Ah, come on! Give me some slack. I’ve got nothing else. I can’t bring them in my lacrosse bag, the books would disintegrate by the stinky fumes of teenage boy alone.”

“Use a plastic bag, or something.”

“It’ll rip before I’m out the door!”

Stiles waved his hands around. The sheriff quietly rescued the jar of jam before it was caught in the cyclone of arms.

“It’s in moments like this I’m glad you don’t have siblings,” he commented tiredly. Lydia and Stiles temporarily forgot their argument to glare daggers in his direction.

“I rest my case,” he added, then rose to rise out his cup.

“Stiles, I’ll give you some money to get a new one after school. In the mean time, Lydia, can’t he just borrow the thing. If he’s got the guts to walk around school with that, I’d say we let him.”

Lydia bristled, but after a few moments she nodded, albeit somewhat stiffly. Stiles wasted no time and lunged for the bag ready to leave before she changed her mind.

“One scratch on my Prada-bag, Stiles and I’ll skin you alive,” she yelled sharply. The drop of her voice promised excruciating pain. Stiles hurried out of the house so fast he forgot his keys. Good thing he really didn’t need them.

 

***

 

“I hear you’re in charge now.”

Liam cornered Stiles by his locker between first and second period. His eyes shot up when he spotted Stiles’ uncharacteristic, yet fashionable bag, but didn’t offer any remarks for which he was very grateful. The Prada-bag had not gone unnoticed, causing several students to openly mock him. Stiles had tried to play it off as a joke, strutting down the hallway as if it was his personal runway, pulling a model pose and everything. It hadn’t had the desired effect. Whispers now followed him, although most of the girls seemed more envious than anything.

“I don’t know if “in charge” is strictly correct, but I’m filling in for Scott for a while.” He smiled cheekily. “You don’t have to call me “my liege”. Unless you want to of course. I’ll allow it.”

Liam stared at him for a moment, then simply shrugged. “I’ll consider it,” he said sarcastically.

Stiles liked Liam. Liam had potential. He also evidently had inquires.

“Anyway, I wanted to talk to you about something. Is this a bad time?”

Stiles glanced at his schedule. Chemistry was next. Harris might be gone, but the subject was still far from his favorite. Like way down at the bottom of the list, would drop if possible (it wasn’t).

“I’ll make time,” he decided. “Come on, let’s find a deserted classroom. This school seems to have those in spades.”

A few minutes later they had in fact found such a classroom. Stiles hopped on top of a desk, gesturing for Liam to do the same.

“So, what’s up?”

Liam squirmed nervously.

“It might not be anything, but I thought I’d mention it anyway,” he began, scrunching his nose up. Stiles had noticed he did that a lot. It was cute.

“Spit it out. I say stuff all the time, most of it is just filler and stupid rants, but I find it’s better to let it all out rather than bottling it up.”

He pointedly didn’t mention that he usually ranted about the inconsequential stuff, and kept the real issues buried deep inside under heavy lock and key. He’d agreed to lead, not lead by example. Liam looked significantly convinced at any rate. Stiles mentally patted him self on the back. He was an awesome leader.

“It’s about Theo,” began Liam hesitantly. It was as if someone had pushed Stiles’ secret nuclear launch button. He managed to subdue the urge to scream and rant, but his magic betrayed him, sending a stack of books on the other side of the room cascading to the floor. Yeah, his magical balance was far from stellar.

“Whoops,” he said, reigning his anger in when another pile threatened to follow. “Sorry, I’m having some minor rage issues where Theo Raeken is concerned.”

“No shit,” mumbled Liam, looking from Stiles to the books and back again with a facial expression suggesting he was seriously regretting approaching him. Stiles was wrong. He was a terrible leader. Horrid even.

“I’m calm now,” he assured. Liam looked dubious, probably picking up on the uptick of his heartbeat, but carried on.

“He hasn’t really done anything. Not really. It’s just, he keeps bothering Hayden, telling her she’s in his pack and all. She really doesn’t want that. Not at all. But he keeps sending her emails, texts, snaps, driving by her house at night. She’s not really scared of him or anything.”

Liam looked proud like only a smitten boyfriend could.

“I’m pretty sure she’d take me if we got in a fight, so Theo shouldn’t be a problem. It’s more annoying than anything. But lately he’s taken to threatening her sister. Saying that he wants to turn her too, and get her in his pack. That way she can’t say no.”

Liam stared at Stiles, desperation oozing from every cell. “He can’t do that, can he? Make more chimeras, I mean? He’s not an alpha, he can’t turn anyone. Can he?”

Stiles let out a strained growl. Liam looked crestfallen. Stiles quickly backtracked, shaking his head. “That didn’t mean yes, he blurted. Liam looked even more confused. “I mean you’re right. That he can’t, I mean. Turn anyone or make chimeras. Of course he can’t. He’s a failed experiment And we smashed the Dread Doctor’s lab to smithereens. So, yeah. No. Nope. Not happening.”

Liam blinked owlishly looking far from convinced. Stiles sighed.

“I’ll have word with Theo. He should know better than to try and meddle again. I’ll sick Derek on him if need be. Or Parrish. Or both. Both is probably better. I’ll ask Morrell just to be sure, but I’m positive he can’t turn anyone.”

Liam nodded. “Shouldn’t we rather ask Deaton?” he asked. “Scott trusts him. I don’t know anything about this Morrell character, but Scott said she couldn’t be trusted. Something about helping alpha packs and working at Eichen House. I gotta admit that sounds like a sketchy track record.”

Stiles smiled politely, fighting back another wave of magical buzz that was sure to do more damage than good unless reigned in.

“How about we ask both and compare notes? Second opinions and whatnot.”  
“Awesome.”

Liam hopped off the desk and made for the door. He paused with his hand on the door nob.

“Do you want to do anything about the others? Corey, Tracy and what’s his face?”

“Josh,” said Stiles automatically.

“Yeah, him. Hayden says Corey keeps dropping hints he’d like to switch teams. Not so sure about the other two to be honest. Tracy looks like she wants to claw everyone just for looking at her the wrong way. That girl has some trust issues.”

“Lovely, just what we need. More people we can’t turn our backs to.”

Stiles felt his shoulders tense. This being in charge thing was not fun. “I’ll think about it, okay.”

“Sure,” said Liam. “See you later.”

 

***

  
Finding Theo was disappointingly easy. Stiles had hoped he’d gone missing or something. Gotten run over by a semi-trailer or taken hostage by The Yakuza mob. A guy could dream. Instead, he found Theo loitering outside the library. This really was a crap day.

“Stiles,” he greeted cheerily.

“Scumbag,” responded Stiles with an equal measure of animosity. He didn’t stop, just swerved around Theo making sure to keep a healthy distance. Theo’s toothy grin faltered.

“Hey, Stilinski, wait. I want a word.”

Stiles stopped, pivoted slowly and bestowed his nemesis with his most neutral expression.

“Lout. There’s a word for you. It’s fitting, since it refers to an awkward and brutish person. Feel free to take offense. Now, if you’ll excuse me I need to get as far away from you as possible. Speaking of distance,” he added casually, “that is something I want you to do keep with the rest of the pack. Hayden included.”

Theo’s fake smile had vanished like Oreos around his dad. It was replaced by his trademark sneer.

“Hayden belongs to me.”

Stiles rolled his eyes, and hoisted the Prada-bag more securely up on his shoulder. This thing was anything put practical.

“You say that like she’s a bundle of carrots you picked up at the Farmer’s market. She’s a person, with free will, I might add, not to mention common sense. Hayden goes exactly where Hayden wants to go, end of story. As do I, and I want to go away from you.”

Stiles whipped out his brand new student identification card and swiped the lock, like a normal person for once. Theo followed him, snarling and spluttering in anything but hushed tones. He was met with a wave of shushing and a stern librarian blocking his path. Stiles took the opportunity to escape up the staircase. He found the darkest corner at the far back and dumped down, letting his forehead fall forward resting on his hands. It wasn’t even lunch yet and he was exhausted.

“Only a few more classes and a lacrosse practice to go,” he mumbled in a lame attempt at pep talk. It didn’t work. Not in the slightest. Which was probably further proof that he sucked as a leader.

 

***

 

Stiles managed to outline an essay on the agricultural politics in the post World War 2 era before it was time for lunch. He’d hoped to get more done, was better than nothing, if only barely. He also had a test to study for and an essay to complete. At this rate he’d be lucky to get any sleep at all this week.

The cafeteria was the usual mix of boisterous students and terrible food, none of which appealed to him in the slightest. Still, he needed to eat something. He should also probably try to find Malia. She hadn’t found her mom, but there was still a minuscule chance she’d learned something from Braeden about clone Derek. Stiles wasn’t particularly looking forward to it though, for obvious reasons. He had no problems confronting supernatural threats or homicidal hunters, but as soon as something involved feelings he was about as brave as a chicken.

“Hey!”

Someone bumped into him from behind. Stiles swirled around only to realize his attacker had moved in the opposite direction. When he turned the other way, said person had moved out of sight. It was all very cliche. Still evidently funny. Stiles finally came face to face with a very amused Scott Mccall.

“Hey,” he returned, feeling oddly as if he’d stepped into an alternate universe. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d seen Scott smile. Really smile. Yet here he was, right in front of him positively beaming. It was no wonder he was skeptical.

“You just got here?” asked Scott, bouncing lightly on his heels like a dog let out of the house after being cooped up too long. It was a fitting analogy in more ways than one. Stiles nodded causing Scott to smile even wider.

“Cool, let’s grab some food and sit down.”

A few minutes later Stiles sat at his usual table, a tray of questionable chicken in front of him and faced with a talkative Scott McCall. Very talkative. To the point that Stiles wondered if they’d somehow been Freaky Friday’d. Or if Scott had accidentally been injected with mood altering substances. Stiles was usually the one who yapped away about inane topics, while Scott nodded along. This role reversal only added to his slightly out there theory about mirror universes. Besides, it was only a matter of time before body swap became an issue anyway at the rate odd things kept happing around town. Stiles was in fact so puzzled by it all, it took him a while to catch up on what Scott was actually blabbing about.

“I was so stoked when Deaton called,” said Scott between mouthfuls. “No offense to the other vet, but I’ve missed him. I don’t think Dr. Geheim could spot a werewolf even if it bit him. He’s the dullest person ever. It’s awesome to have someone like Deaton who knows about everything back.”

He waggled his eyebrows. Stiles grimaced in what he hoped Scott would interpret as agreement. It was best not lie outright, Scott might pick up on that and take offense. He was alarmingly fond of Alan Deaton, almost to the point of worship. It was not healthy and it kind of baffled Stiles how Scott didn’t see that the vet usually held back information more than he offered.

“So,” said Stiles casually. “Did Deaton say where he’s been? Or what he’s been up to?”  
Scott nodded enthusiastically.

“He did. He went to a vet convention.”

Stiles dropped his fork sending rice and ketchup in all directions. Pikachu now looked like it was suffering from meningitis.

“A vet convention? Seriously?!”

A group of girls at the next table sent him odd glances, though that might as well be because of the Prada-bag. Scott seemed perfectly unfazed by his outburst.

“Yeah, it was on hospice care for cancerous animals. He said it was very educational. It was held up on a ranch in Montana. The cell service was terrible, so he more or less cut off from the world. He said it helped get in the right frame of mind for the topic at hand. To really be there for the poor animals,you know, removed from outside influences.”

Stiles balked. What the fuck? Did Scott really buy into all this New Age mumbo jumbo?

“On his way back he stopped at a fellow druid he knows to stock up on stuff,” continued Scott, as if this was a run of the mill milk run. “He brought a crate full of all kinds of things that he claims will help with what we’re facing.”

“Hospice care?” Stiles had dropped all attempts to mask his annoyance. “Really? He traipsed off to learn about hospice care when we were in the middle of a supernatural shit-storm of cataclysmic proportions? And you still feel you can trust the guy?”

Scott shot him an irritated glare. It was a far cry from the sullenness of lately, but still not the reaction Stiles was hoping for. Clearly, he still couldn’t see any reason to be even the teeniest skeptical of the local veterinarian.

“He’s been nothing but helpful, Stiles. I don’t get this animosity you have for him. He’s been helping you too, remember.”

“Funny, we seem to define the word “helping” differently.”

“I guess so.”

Scott had pushed his uneven chin out, which Stiles knew meant he wasn’t about to change his mind any time soon. He knew better than to push the issue.

“Fine,” he mumbled, poking his chicken with disinterest. “How about we talk about something else instead? I hear you skipped out on your session with Morrell.”

Scott sneered, almost as if Stiles was one of those careless wizards who dared mention Voldemort’s name out loud.

“Yeah, I’m not doing that,” he said harshly, cutting his chicken with unnecessary force. “I don’t need to see a shrink anyway. I was sad about Allison. I’m not sad anymore. End of story.”

“Just like that?”

Scott nodded. “Yeah. Just like that.”

Stiles sighed. “I know a bit about grief, Scott. It doesn’t work like that. You don’t get over something of this magnitude over night or at the flick of a switch. You might feel okay today, but that doesn’t mean it will last. You can wake up tomorrow feeling down again. I think you should take the time to work through it.”

“No, Stiles,” said Scott brusquely. “I refuse to let some untrustworthy emissary psychoanalyze me. Besides, just because you can’t get over your mom dying, that doesn’t mean I can’t move on. It’s not my fault you can’t let that go. We’re not the same, Stiles. Stop comparing us.”

Scott didn’t say it outright, but the meaning wasn’t lost on Stiles. It stung more than he thought it would, considering Scott and he had been drifting apart for a while. Perhaps Scott didn’t mean to offend him by suggesting Stiles was a weak idiot for not letting the loss of his mother go, but he still did. And that was a huge part of the issues Stiles had with him. How Scott couldn’t see things from other perspectives than his own, and that the only colors he recognized were black or white. Stiles had hoped they’d be able to sit down and talk through their issues. They had promised they would, but now it seemed like a pipe dream. Scott was still deaf to Stiles’ suspicions and suggestions.

“Yeah, you’re right,” he finally replied, voice as neutral as he could. “We’re not the same.”

In that moment it became crystal clear to Stiles that things would never be the same again, and he’d been a fool to think it could.

 

***

 

Coach Finstock was on fire that day. Literally. Or at least his mouth was. Some hapless jerk had found it amusing to swap all of Coach’s red peppers with chili. The result was calamitous. Even on a good day coach was both red-faced and loud, which meant he really didn’t need the extra boost. Basically, this extra “fire” was unwanted, unwelcome and unpleasant, at least for the lacrosse team who’d become the victim of most of his frustrations.

Not even werewolf-stamina could withstand his barking insanity. Even Liam was winded halfway through the practice. Poor Greenberg, who usually refrained from running much at all (and for good reason), was forced to complete laps and suicides. The shock to his body was so great he downright collapsed after half an hour, gasping for air like a seasoned asthmatic. It was unclear whether Coach simply didn’t notice (highly likely) or simply didn’t care (equally as likely. He kept the intensity at Olympic levels until the school nurse marched onto the field and shut the practice down.

Stiles was exhausted, grumpy and the kind of hungry that seemed to gnaw at your insides. He showered quickly, expertly ignoring both Greenberg’s cousin who he still didn’t know the name of, and who for some reason seemed overly keen to discuss defense tactics with him; and Coach, who was reciting some monologue eerily reminiscent of the speech from Braveheart.

Scott had attended today’s practice, still not as focused as he usually was, but Coach had almost wept when he saw him walk onto the field. He was currently deep in a conversation with Liam and Kira. The latter radiated such happiness it tugged at Stiles’ heartstrings. He hoped for Kira’s sake Scott really was doing better. There was little doubt she truly loved him, and would probably walk through fire if necessary. Stiles just prayed Scott felt the same way. If the ignored phone calls, texts and general disassociation she’d suffered lately was anything to go by, he wasn’t too hopeful. Stiles knew the signs well.

No one noticed when Stiles slipped out of the locker room. He wandered down deserted hallways, his footsteps echoing eerily off the walls. Most after school activities were done for the day, except for band practice. The morose tones of some kind of symphony trickled towards him as he neared the auditorium. The composition reached a crescendo, culminating in a jumble of brass instruments and percussions. Seconds later the door opened and instrument-carrying students filtered out, chatting happily amongst themselves. Stiles wisely hung back waiting for them to pass. He didn’t want to risk a tuba to his face.

“Hey, Stiles.”

Danny approached smiling tentatively. “Lacrosse practice running late today?”

Stiles shuddered. “You could say that. Someone slipped Coach chili. It had about the same unfortunate effect as feeding Gremlins after midnight. Or getting them wet.”

Danny winced in sympathy. “Say no more. I don’t exactly miss coach’s odd whims.”

They stood awkwardly for a few seconds.

“You heading out?” asked Stiles, gesturing towards the parking lot. Danny nodded.  
“Yeah, I need to catch the bus home. I missed my ride.”

“I’ll drive you,” offered Stiles. He wanted to know if he’d had any luck with the bank account. Danny looked genuinely relieved.

“Awesome, thanks.”

  
*

  
“Okay, so I’m dying to know. Did you have any luck with the bank accounts?”

For once the Jeep’s motor was behaving, purring along like a content kitten which meant it was possible to keep up a normal conversation without shouting. It was the first thing that had gone right that day, and Stiles clung to it gratefully.

Danny nodded. “Yeah, gaining access was a breeze. Banks have terrible firewalls.”

“Great,” replied Stiles, suddenly worried about his meager savings. “So? Anything?”

Danny scratched his chin. “As far as I can see, nothing out of the ordinary. Then again you left me no clues on what I’m supposed to be looking for.”

“Yeah, I wanted you to have plausible denialability,” said Stiles with a grin. “I’m not really looking for a specific thing or transfer. I just want to know if the account has been in use after August 23rd? If so, I want to know what and where.”

“Hang on.”

Danny rummaged in his backpack and pulled out a crumpled printout.

“Let’s see.. August 23rd. Oh, yeah. No. In fact, nothing after August 22nd. Why? What are you looking for exactly?”

“Proof of life,” mumbled Stiles. August 23rd was they day Kira had found Derek in Mexico and the day Braeden said clone Derek had vanished in the night. If Clone Derek was still out there, he was getting money from somewhere else, and they had no idea where to start looking.

“Thanks anyway,” said Stiles. “Can I keep the bank statement?”

“Of course.” Danny handed it over. “And you’re welcome. Though, don’t make a habit of it, please. A felony now will stick to my permanent record.”

“We have a written agreement. I keep my promises,” said Stiles, crossing his heart for good measure.

They fell silent again after that except for Stiles asking Danny for directions to his house. After a few minutes he pulled up outside a nice house with a well-kept front yard. Danny hesitated getting out of the car, as if he wanted to ask something but was half-afraid of what he might learn. Stiles made it easy for him.

“Spit it out.”

Danny startled. “What?”

“Whatever it is you want to ask. Just do it. I won’t bite, and even if I did you needn’t worry. I can’t turn you into anything, except maybe crazy, but that hasn’t nothing to do with bites. My dad tells me my ramblings makes him nuts sometimes.” He shrugged, smiled and gestured for Danny to get started.

“You sure?”

Stiles nodded, drumming his hands against the steering wheel.  
“Positive. So what’s up?”

Danny chewed his lower lip, then shyly lifted his head meeting Stiles’ eyes. He was momentarily taken aback by the raw emotion in them.

“I was wondering about Lydia,” he began. Stiles stiffened in his seat. No one outside of their close circle of friends, his dad, Melissa and Lydia’s mom knew where she was. If Danny had caught wind of it, they should definitely consider moving her to a new safe house until the judge was back with a verdict.  
  
“What about her,” asked Stiles, trying to convey an air of keen disinterest. He failed.

“I noticed that she’s not in school. At first I thought she’d graduated early. I know she had the grades for it. It wasn’t until I overheard some girls from our year talking about who’d be valedictorian that I realized she’s still enrolled as a student. I asked around and found out she had some sort of mental break and was sent to Eichen House.”

He sounded kind of distraught. Stiles knew Lydia and Danny had been in the same circle of popular kids back when Jackson was still around, but he hadn’t realized he cared this deeply. It was kind of touching.

“Yeah, I heard that too,” said Stiles carefully. Danny didn’t seem to suspect she wasn’t there anymore. He wasn’t about to ruin the secret, even if he hated lying to people he genuinely liked.

“So, you haven’t been to visit her or anything?” asked Danny. Stiles shook his head. That wasn’t even a lie. He hadn’t visited. Just broken in and rescued her. There was a difference.

“No, sorry,” he said. “Did you want to? Visit her, I mean?”

Danny looked sort of lost in thought. Stiles actually had to poke him slightly to get a reaction.

“What? Sorry. No. I dunno. Maybe.” He shrugged. “I’ve heard about Eichen but never knew anyone admitted there. I was just curios about it I guess.”

“Well, you know me. I’ve been there,” said Stiles. “Sucks balls, do not recommend. Stay clear of Eichen if you value your mental health. Which is contradictory. I know. Still true, though.”

Danny looked shell-shocked. “Now I really worry about Lydia,” he muttered. “It’s tied to this supernatural crap, isn’t it?” he asked.

“What isn’t?” replied Stiles long-suffering. Danny looked honestly worried. “Crap, sorry. Didn’t mean to alarm you or anything.”

“So, if Lydia’s in Eichen and Eichen is tied to this supernatural stuff, does that mean Lydia is supernatural? Is she dangerous? Will she ever get out?”

Stiles’ spidey senses tingled. He could understand why Danny wondered, yet there was something else underneath, something he couldn’t pinpoint. He was dying to ask, but decided against it. Danny wasn’t involved in this mess. He should spare him the worst of it.

“Lydia will be fine,” said Stiles firmly. “I talked to her mom, she might be getting out any day now. Thanks again for helping with the bank account. I won’t involve you in anything else like promised, I know you want to stay clear of this stuff. I won’t ask anything of you again, I promise.”

“Not even if you’re attractive to gay guys?” joked Danny. Stiles snorted.

“No guarantees on that one. Although I known I’m at least attractive to one gay guy. I really don’t need more."

 

 

 

***

 

 

Stiles woke with a gasp. He sat up abruptly feeling as though he couldn’t breathe, his breast heavy and heart beating erratically. He flailed around in the dark, battling his blankets and ended up knocking his bedside lamp to the floor. He followed moments later, landing painfully on his hip.

Muffled sounds of doors opening and bare feet thundering over wooden floors could be heard before the door to Stiles’ room was yanked open and his dad and Lydia tumbled in. They both looked bleary-eyed and scared, yet armed to the teeth. His dad had his gun out. Lydia had the only golf club they owned, a nine iron, swung high.

“Stiles, son are you alright?”

His dad was in sheriff mode, inching along the wall like this was a scene out of Criminal Minds. Lydia’s golf form looked surprisingly stellar.

“I heard wheezing, screams and a loud bump. Is there an intruder in here?” He yanked open the bathroom door and peered inside.

Stiles took the time to gracelessly untangle from the blankets.

“No, there’s no intruder,” he muttered, wincing in pain. His head was pounding, as if a migraine had just hit. He felt jittery and uneasy.

“Please tell me Derek isn’t hiding under your blankets.”

His dad sounded pained. Lydia sounded like she was camouflaging an ill-timed laugh with a raspy cough.

“All of the blankets are on the floor, dad. With me. Derek’s not here, so no need to whip out the bleach. Not that there’s any left in the house,” he muttered.

The Sheriff sighed in audible relief, then paused slightly before hitting the switch, bathing the room in way too harsh a glare for three AM. Stiles dived for the blankets again to shield his eyes. Even Lydia whined unhappily.

“Stiles? Son, why are you on the floor? Did you have another nightmare?”

His dad crossed the room in two strides, holstered the gun and bent over to help hoist Stiles back onto the bed. It wasn’t until he was leaning heavily against the headboard he realized he was soaked through with sweat. Lydia disappeared into the bathroom and returned moments later with a large glass of water. Stiles gulped it down greedily. When he’d downed it all Lydia was back with a fresh t-shirt and a pair of sweatpants. She returned to the bathroom for more water, leaving Stiles to change without her prying eyes.

His dad looked forlorn and shaken, like he was caught between wanting to hug him and shake answers out of him. Stiles immediately felt guilt build up. He’d put him through hell and beyond with the possession a while back. The nightmares had continued for some time, even after the threat was dealt with. It had been a blessed few months now with few nightly wake-ups of the same caliber. Stiles had honestly thought the worst was over. Sure, he sometimes woke up with unsettling images of black swirly eyes and the shadowy beast, but Stiles suspected so did most of the people involved in that debacle. Or maybe not the black eyes, but that was bound to be his subconscious bringing it to the forefront. He couldn’t deny that he was very worried about Scott.

This hadn’t been one of those dreams, though. Not the other surreal kind either that sometimes popped up in his subconscious dream state. Once in a while Stiles would wake up feeling as though he’d just lived through odd events or situations which had felt eerily real. Like last week when he woke up confused from a very vivid dream where Jackson Whittemore had been his best friend. Now that was probably the very definition of a nightmare! This however…

  
“It wasn’t a nightmare,” said Stiles, rubbing his eyes. “Not in the traditional sense anyway. It was more like - “

He trailed off, taking a moment to find the right comparison. Lydia had returned, handing him another glass of water and a cold cloth. He accepted both gratefully.

“You know when you watch a movie and you think it’s just another drama flick, then suddenly and completely out of nowhere a zombie or a shark or whatnot attack. That feeling when you go from peaceful and safe in one moment, then full out panic and scared shitless the next?”

They nodded. Stiles licked his lips nervously, still feeling the adrenaline running high.

“That’s what it felt like. I just woke with a start, completely terrified. I have no clue what had scared me, though. I can’t remember what I was dreaming about. That’s just a big blank. All I know is that my body was on high alert for whatever reason.”

“Is this a magic thing?” asked his dad with that pinched tone he sometimes got when supernatural topics were broached. Stiles shrugged. The sheriff then looked to Lydia, but she looked just as blank.

“If it is, Morrell hasn’t mentioned it,” said Stiles. “I can ask her next time.”

“How do you feel now?” probed Lydia, sitting down on the edge of the bed. His dad pulled over the swivel chair and sat down. Stiles suddenly felt weirdly like they were keeping vigil at his deathbed. He dearly hoped that wasn’t the case. “Are you still terrified, or has it passed?”

“I feel tingly.”

“What does that even mean?”

“I honestly don’t know, dad. I just feel like every nerve ending is buzzing. Look, even my hairs are standing on end.”

He brandish his arms, the hairs all tight at attention.

“Anything else?”

Lydia’s forehead was creased, a sure sign she was already hard at work gathering data and compiling theories and hypothesis. Stiles was too tired and too wired to contribute much.

“I dunno. I feel off-kilter somehow. Like someone is messing with my balance. It’s an uncomfortable feeling, but that might just be because of the low-current electric buzz I feel coursing through - Oh my GOD! OH MY GOD. Crap!”

Stiles shot out of bed, elbowing his way past Lydia. He grabbed hold on the swivel chair to propel himself onto the floor, and accidentally sent his dad spinning in the process. When he stopped, just a hair’s breadth from knocking over the murder board, Stiles was hopping around the room looking for his left shoe.

“What is it? What’s wrong? Stiles? STILES!”

Stiles’ head was spinning, panic blooming, making it hard to think clearly. He didn’t even know what he was looking for. A hand steadied him, bring him to a halt. He blinked and focused in on his dad’s worried face.

“Stiles, calm down. You’re on the verge of panic. What’s going on? What can we do?”

Stiles teared at his hair unable to stand still.

“It’s the Nemeton,” he finally managed, voice shaky. “Something’s wrong.”

Lydia gasped. “I thought you locked it, that it was back to being harmless and in balance.”

“I did!”

Stiles wriggled out of his dad’s hold, heading for the door. “It’s been perfectly fine ever since. I visit it at least once a week, but something is definitely wrong now. I can feel it. It’s like it’s calling out to me, asking for help.”

A steely resolve settled on the sheriff’s face. “In that case,” he said, taking out his gun again, “what are we waiting for?”

 

  
***

 

“Are you sure this is the right way? Ouch! Fuck, Stiles! Can’t we take the trails instead?”

The sheriff continued to curse as they walked through the thick vegetation in the almost pitch black night. There was no moon tonight. Heavy clouds blocked out all the natural sources of light. All they had were a couple of flashlights and Lydia’s phone.

“I’m sure,” said Stiles impatiently, picking up speed. The closer they got, the more uneasy he felt. Branches and leaves whipped his face and arms, but he didn’t even notice. “This is the quickest way.”

“I would rather take the scenic route,” complained Lydia. “It will take hours to untangle my hair. If I knew we’d be roughing it I’d put it in a bun. Not to be a killjoy or anything, but I’m positive we entered from another direction the last time we looked for it.”

“This is the right way,” repeated Stiles. “I should know, I visit it weekly. Besides, it moves around. You can’t just mark it on a map and follow a trail to it. If you did you’d never find it again.”

“That makes no sense,” said his dad, more perplexed than anything. “How can a huge tree trunk simply move location at will?”

“The same way I lock you in the bathroom, I suppose,” said Stiles smartly. “Magic.”

“Fuck magic,” muttered his dad, swinging his flashlight like a machete.

“The “fucking magic” is what saved us all last time, I wouldn’t be so quick to curse it. Besides, we’re here.”

There it was. The Nemeton.

They could vaguely make out the contours of the enormous trunk through the darkness, but as always the sheer magnitude of it blew Stiles away. It was by far the largest cut-down tree he’d ever seen, which was kind of eerie in its own right. The strum of magic radiating from it added to it. He shuddered to think what would happen if they hadn’t managed to close the crack that the Dread Doctors and Jennifer before them had made. Stiles still found it overwhelming coming here, but had been pleasantly surprised by how right it had felt after he accepted his role as gatekeeper and guardian. Much of the conflicting feelings and uneasiness he’d been battling the last few years had fallen into place. He always felt calm and complete around it. This time however, something was definitely not right.

“Ouch!”

Stiles felt a painful sting to his chest hit him like a projectile. He stumbled slightly, but managed to stay on his feet.

“What is it?” His dad was by his side in no time, propping him up. Stiles sagged against him, biting his lower lip as he worked through the pain. “Stiles, son. What’s wrong?”

“It’s the Nemeton,” he wheezed. “I think it’s hurt. I need to-”

He doubled over in pain, wincing and trying hard not to cry out. It felt as if something was burning his skin. He took another tentative step, aided by his dad and the pain intensified. Stiles crumbled to the damp forest floor like he’d suddenly become boneless.

“Stiles!” cried his dad distraught, falling down next to him. Lydia hurried to kneel by his head, guiding it into her lap. Stiles was writhing in agony, feeling as though he was melting from the inside out.

“Make it stop,” he wheezed, clawing at his t-shirt. With numb fingers he found the edge and tried to tug it up, but his hands were uncooperative. The sheriff gently pried them away, then slowly exposed Stiles’ stomach. Stiles’ sigh of relief as the cool night air soothed his scorching skin was drowned out by his dad’s horrified cries. He sat slack-jawed on the ground next to his son, staring uncomprehendingly at the huge red welt covering most of Stiles’ abdomen.

“How bad is it?”

Stiles tried to lift his head to get a glimpse but could only see the top of it. Lydia’s quiet gasp was quite telling. It wasn’t good.

“It - oh god, how could this happen?” His dad shook his head, fumbling for his phone. “You need treatment, son. This is a third degree burn if I ever saw one.”

“What does it look like? Tell me, dad!”

The sheriff hit speed dial on his phone, probably Melissa, then pressed it to his ear. Stiles turned to Lydia, who was still staring transfixed at whatever kind of mutilation that had magically appeared on his body.

“Lydia. Hey, Lyds!”

She finally tore her eyes away.

“What does it look like, Lydia? What aren’t you telling me?”

She swallowed heavily, shut her eyes for a few long seconds, then met his gaze with stoic resolve.

“A hand print,” she said quietly. “It looks like hand print.”

What the fuck?

Stiles’ head was spinning. Why would a hand print suddenly appear when he was nearing the Nemeton? The Nemeton was more or less an extension of himself. Why would it brand him and essentially hinder him from approaching it? It didn’t make any sense.

“Stiles? What are you - ? Sheriff! Oh my, stay still. I don’t think you should move -. Stiles!”

Lydia’s voice ended on a shrill and desperate note as Stiles, with great difficulty but steely resolve, pushed himself to his feet. Standing on two legs proved a futile endeavor. It caused his burn to throb too close to Stiles’ maximum threshold for pain, and he fell back down. Still, he refused to let that stop him!

Doubled over on his hands and knees, Stiles more or less dragged his body the rest of the way towards the enormous stump, fighting off Lydia’s futile attempts to make him stop.

“Stiles, stop! You’re making it worse! Oh God! You just lost all color in your face. Sheriff! Sheriff! Help!”

Stiles was just a few feet away when he heard his dad curse and drop his phone. Strong hands were on him in just seconds, attempting to pull him back.

“You’ll be the death of me, kid! Melissa is on her way, we need to get you to a hospital. You really shouldn’t move around. Stop it, Stiles!”

“I need to see,” mumbled Stiles, swatting at his dad’s arms. “I need to see what’s wrong with it - “

He’d gotten a hand on top of it, and with strength he didn’t knew he had (he suspected his magic was involved) he hoisted himself up, high enough to get a glimpse of the top with all it’s rings. Rings that at the moment were completely covered in red. Blood red hand prints to be precise. The edges of the prints were dark brown, bordering on black. Like it was rotting. Dying.

“That’s not good,” muttered Stiles.

Then everything went black.

 

  
***

 

Stiles was adrift in a sea of unconsciousness. He felt pleasantly lulled, as if he was on a swing set being gently pushed, feeling a soft wind on his face and a slight tingle in his stomach. He didn’t know who was pushing him, providing the perfect amount of momentum, but he knew he could stay here forever. It was like being pulled between two forces - one that propelled him forward causing tingles in his stomach, and another that was pulling him backwards, into the unknown which was exciting and a bit scary. Stiles liked the in between best - the middle ground where he could sort of enjoy the benefits of both.

It kind of felt like a cherished childhood memory, rosy and innocent. Somewhere behind him people were talking in soft tones. It was reassuring and safe. In front of him, slightly out of focus and half hidden behind the tree, he could make out the shapes of people bustling around. He felt drawn to them, like maybe he knew them.

Still, he kept on swinging, back and forth, alternating between a sense of safety and a promise of belonging. The swing set felt achingly familiar. Like a place he’d want to hang out, perhaps forever.

The world, and modern medicine, had other plans. Gradually the images began to fade. For a short while all he could see where blackness, a void of nothing that made him uneasy. It soon gave way to blurred shapes hovering above him. The blurs gradually, after a lot of furious blinking, morphed into two worried faces.

His dad’s and Derek’s.

“Hey, son.”

The sheriff was going for the jovial and cheerful tone, which Stiles knew normally meant one of two things: His injuries were serious as fuck and his dad was hiding his own fear behind smiles or fake elation, or alternatively he was just so fucking relieved Stiles was okay he couldn’t hide it. He’d seen both reactions play out before, and he was unable to interpret what laid behind this current display. He blamed the drugs of which there was copious amounts soaring through his bloodstream if the wooziness was anything to go by.

“Hey,” he croaked back. His throat felt as dry as Derek’s jokes. Speaking of his sour wolfiness, Derek leaned over brandishing a glass of water with a straw like Florence Fucking Nightingale, then pressed a cool hand to Stiles’ forehead as if checking for fever. If he wasn’t in such excruciating pain, Stiles would totally laugh. Instead, he accepted the glass gratefully, gulping down the water with little finesse and a lot of spills. Derek wiped his chin with such tender reverence. Stiles felt warm all over.

“What happened? How bad is it?”

He tried to sit up, but was promptly held down by two sets of hands.

“No sudden movements,” admonished his dad. “Doctor’s orders. You’ve got third degree burns that need to be tended and cared for carefully. Burns I still have no idea how you got, and I’ve had a hard time trying to explain how what looks like a giant hand print, is seared onto my son’s skin. I think the word on the ward is alien abduction. One particular nurse muttered about trench coats, angels and being risen from perdition. Frankly, I’ve done little to try and squash these crazy tales. Not when they’re actually more believable than the truth.”

“The nurses down the corridor seem to think Stiles has been initiated into a street gang.”

Derek seemed amused. The sheriff sighed with ill-disguised resignation.

“I will never get used to werewolf hearing,” he mumbled, rubbing the back of his neck. “Nor the idiocy people manage to gossip about. Honestly, what gang brands new members with hand prints? How do they imagine this goes down? Specially made branding irons? It’s absurd! Are these really the people we want caring for our sick?”

“Yes,” said Stiles, fiddling with the bandages. His skin was itching. Derek reached out and grabbed his hand, braiding their fingers together and squeezing softly. Stiles blushed.

“Yes?” His dad’s voice broke in exasperation. “Honestly?”

Stiles shrugged. “Yes, honestly. I’d rather have them think I’m a badass street thug than have a herd of gossiping nurses spreading wild accusations about magical burns.”

“But you’re not a badass street thug! This will be all over town in a matter of days, and it will be damaging to your reputation, son.” The sheriff was on his feet, pacing the length of his bed.

“Dad, you need to take a chill pill. You can probably get one of mine, they’re giving me an awesome buzz.”

The sheriff simply glared, but continued his angry march undeterred.

“Okay, seriously. Dad, you need to listen to me. I’m taking one for the team here, alright. Don’t worry about it. And you’re giving the gossiping forces of this town way too little credit, by the way. It will only take hours, not days for this to spread like wildfire.”

“You’re not exactly easing my mind here, Stiles,” he barked. “It’s not right that you should get the blame and bear the consequences of things you’re essentially not really to blame for.”

“Dad, that’s not fair. Please sit down, let’s talk about this calmly, alright?”

Stiles was starting to fidget again, trying to sit up further. Derek was by his side in the blink of an eye, helping him up slowly. The sheriff showed no sign of calming down. In fact, the volume of his mutterings suggested he was about to work himself up into a new level of angry Stiles knew no one was served with.

“Dad! Dad, please sit - oh for the love of God!”

With an unpleasant squeak the chair next to Stiles’ bed was dragged across the flooring, colliding with the back of the sheriff’s knees forcing him to fall back into it with an groan. He instantly grabbed hold of the arm rests and tried to stand up. It was no use.

“Stiles! What did you do?”

“I’m not - wow! Derek, did you see that? Did I? I - I did, didn’t I?”

Stiles was staring wide-eyed and astonished at his own handiwork. He’d wanted his dad to sit down, that much he knew. But getting from that to this? Suffice to say, he hadn’t expected that.

“Have you locked him in his chair?” asked Derek sounding genuinely impressed.

“I think so? He can’t get up, can he? I didn’t even know I could do that.”

“I’m right here,” hissed the sheriff, still trying fruitlessly to stand up. “No need to discuss me as if I’m an inanimate object. Also, this is a new low, Stiles. Locking me in the bathroom was one thing, this is - this is childish and demeaning! Now, let me go!”

Stiles shook his head. “I don’t think so. Not before we’ve had a little chat, at least. Besides, I don’t even know how to make it stop. Perhaps it will just wear off or something?”

“That is hardly comforting.”

“This is hardly an exact science,” retorted Stiles. “Anyway, dad. Please, take a deep breath. This isn’t the end of the world. This isn’t even the first time half the town gossips about me, is it? Stolen police van. Restraining order. Got you fired. Ring any bells?”

“Unfortunately, yes.”

“Well,” said Stiles with a too-bright smile. “Then you’ll also remember that it blows over. In this town it’s only a matter of days before something new and more scandalous pops up. Or some murdering psychos roll into town. Unless they’re already here,” he added with an afterthought.

“What’s that supposed to mean?” asked his dad tersely. Stiles tugged at his bandages again. His skin itched really badly. Shouldn’t burns like burn? Was this even normal? He was aching to take a peek…

“Stop that.”

Once again Derek pried his fingers away. Stiles pouted.

“Can we perhaps address the more pressing issue here?” Derek continued looking from Stiles to the sheriff and back again. “Forget about gossip and reputations for a moment. I can’t help but worry more about why Stiles was burned than how we’re going to cover it up.”

The sheriff sobered immediately. “Of course. Derek, you’re right. I’m sorry. I, I don’t know what to say. My son gets hurt and I lose my head. It’s every parent’s prerogative, I guess.”

They both turned towards Stiles, who once again was trying to weasel a finger under his burn bandages. He froze when he realized he was caught and reluctantly stopped. Derek and his dad exchanged resigned glances. Stiles didn’t know whether he should be worried or pleased that his dad and his boyfriend was silently communicating about him. The smart money was on “not”.  
“Okay, Stiles. What’s your theory on this?”

Stiles blinked uncomprehendingly. “My theory?”

“Yes,” his dad said tiredly, “your theory. You implied you had one.”

He shrugged, still somewhat taken aback. “I did - I do, have a theory, I mean. Actually I have several. I’m not just used to anyone wanting to hear them.”

“Well, son whatever you have cooked up probably won’t beat the fact that I’ve somehow spawned a magical child, so spill.”

Derek nodded encouragingly. It was the last nudge he needed.

“Ideally I need to get close to the Nemeton again. No, no Derek, dad - counter-arguments are futile,” he said when both showed signs of protesting. “I know it sounds very new age and all, but I’m in tune with that tree. I feel balanced around it, but now I couldn’t get within spitting distance before I was badly burned. I have no clue if it’s because it’s hurt and this burn is an extension of that, or if someone is messing with it and this was some kind of ward preventing me from getting closer. All I know is that I need to fix this and someone is messing with it - again.” He smiled humorlessly. “I find it particularly interesting how this interference happened just days after Deaton got back into town.”

The sheriff looked dubious. “Deaton? You think Alan Deaton has anything to do with this? That sounds highly unlikely.”

“Why?” Stiles glared at his dad defiantly. “Why is that unlikely? You haven’t been around from the start, dad. You haven’t witnessed just how evasive and odd the guy is. He always knows more than he’s letting on, and he’s a master at manipulating Scott. Scott’s been a basket case lately. Who’s to say Deaton hasn’t had a hand in that? Perhaps he’s even using Scott to hurt the Nemeton. That is what Valack and Gerard wanted with beast!Allison. Scott got under its thrall pretty easily, what if he was infected somehow? Scott was in the ice baths too - the Nemeton probably recognizes him as a friend. He’d be the perfect person to infect it, sort of like a Trojan Horse.”

“Whoa.” His dad stared at him incredulously. “That is one heck of an accusation. With a lot of jumping to conclusions and wild assumptions.”

“That might be,” said Stiles huffily. “I don’t trust him. He was conveniently absent for the Dread Doctors and all the shit they brought. We almost lost that battle. What if Deaton was complicit? What if he’s back now trying to carry out a plan C or D or whatnot?”

“Are you buying any of this?” His dad was addressing Derek. “Wasn’t Deaton your mom’s emissary? I thought the Hales trusted him with their lives?”

Derek’s face was unreadable, which Stiles knew meant he was probably thinking hard. Considering it. He took his time before he answered.

“He was my mother’s emissary, yes. However, I didn’t know that. Perhaps Laura did, since she was next in line as alpha, but I hadn’t even seen him before after Scott was bitten. I don’t really know anything about the guy. I did however find him suspicious when I first got back. I thought he was involved in Laura’s murder.”

“You even thought he was the alpha!” added Stiles. “The guy reeks of suspicion is all I’m saying. Derek’s wolfy senses tingled as well. We should at least look into it!”

His dad still didn’t look convinced. “You said you had several theories,” he asked.

“Yeah, my spidey senses also tingle with regards to Braeden. There’s something off about her.”

The sheriff groaned. “This just keeps getting better and better. She’s a US Marshall, Stiles. A fellow law enforcer. I highly doubt she’s going around corrupting magical trees. She’s as human as me!”

“Looks can be deceiving,” protested Stiles.

“Yes, they can,” agreed the Sheriff. “Just look at you. Okay, I think I’ve had enough speculations for today. Now I just want to get you home. As soon as the nurse gets back to change your dressing, I’m getting you released. The less these gossip mongers see of you, the better.”

Stiles nodded.  
“Okay. Better make sure Melissa’s the one to change my bandages, though,” he added, dropping the edge of the bandage he’d finally managed to loosen enough to get a peek.

“Why?”

Stiles grimaced and squirmed where he sat, looking sheepishly from one to the other.

“To avoid feeding the gossip mill further.” He ripped off one of the bandages. “It seems like my magical burn is magically healed.”

 

 

 

 

 


	11. Chapter 11

“Stop it. Both of you!”

Stiles scowled over his bowl of cheerios, trying to ignore the two grumpy men across the table. His dad and Derek sat, their arms crossed identically, like odd twins, both glaring at him as if they suspected he’d attempt to David Copperfield his way out of the kitchen. Not a completely ludicrous theory on their part, but they didn’t need to know that. In fact, everything would be fine and dandy if they would just listen to reason and let him go inspect the Nemeton. But no. Stiles mentally cursed. The pair of them refused to listen to logical arguments and instead listened to Melissa McCall, who by the way wasn’t even a doctor for that matter. She’d prescribed bed rest and lots of fluids. Since when had that ever benefited anyone in this town?

“Stop what exactly?” asked his dad sweetly, pushing a glass of water closer to him in a passive aggressive attempt to force even more liquids down his throat. Stiles swore he'd drown from water in his lungs if he didn’t stop. 

“We’re not doing anything. We’re not even saying anything. We’re just sitting here calmly, making sure you do as your doctor says. Now, drink!”

Stiles grimaced and flicked a spoonful of soggy cereal across the table. It spread out like buckshots, hitting both Derek and his dad’s arms. They even wiped the stuff away in perfect tandem, the fuckers. Stiles wanted to scream.

“Melissa is not an MD,” he grumbled. “I don’t see why I should listen to advice from a nurse anyway. Especially since I’m not even injured anymore.”

“Your outside might be fine, Stiles, but we don’t really know if it caused any internal damage. Hence the bed rest.” Derek’s smile looked more like a constipated grimace than anything else. Stiles awarded him an A for effort, but he was nowhere near his dad’s level of fake niceties. Thank god.

“Oh come on! Seriously?” Stiles asked incredulously. “Do you think the burn fried my insides? Boiled my bowels? Cooked my kidney? If so, I’m pretty sure I’d be writhing in agony right. Instead, I'm getting mental scars from this odd couple routine you’re forcing me to endure. Newsflash - you’re both doing a terrible job. Do not quit your day jobs.”

Derek rolled his eyes, blustering in his seat. Stiles suppressed a smirk. He was getting to him, which of course was exactly what he was trying to achieve. Sadly, his dad was more or less immune to his antics. Instead, he leaned forward, elbows resting casually on the table top, regarding him through narrow eyes.

“Need I remind you, son, that we just brought you home from the hospital where you magically - dear god, I’m never getting used to that word having literal meaning.” He shook his head slightly. “Stiles, _a_ _tree_ gave you a third degree burn that healed completely within an hour of your arrival at Beacon Hills Memorial. That is not normal. So excuse us for wanting to make sure nothing else - magical or not - happens to you.”

Stiles toyed with his spoon, pushing the last of the cheerios aimlessly around like lost boats in a sea of milk.

“Derek also has magical healing abilities,” he pouted. “Shouldn’t he be with me, on the side of the accused?”

Derek snorted. The sheriff looked heavenward as if expecting some higher deity to bestow some wisdom upon him. Stiles had not come across anything supporting the concept of angels. He wasn’t ruling it out entirely, because that seemed foolish given his experience so far. If they were out there somewhere, they did not seem inclined to swoop down to help out the local sheriff. 

“Derek is a born werewolf, the healing makes sense, or as much sense anything around here makes, but that is beside the point. It makes “sense” when we take into account enhanced hearing, strength, scents and whatnot. You’re an 18 year old teenager with no claws or extra sets of canines. I don’t see why you should heal the way you did, magic or not. You stubbed your toe yesterday and you’re still limping for god’s sake. Why hasn’t that healed?”

“You’re looking at this all wrong.” Stiles blinked innocently. “You’re sitting there in a huff listing possible worst case scenarios when instead you should be celebrating. Think of all you’ll save on medical bills and insurance.” He nodded along for emphasis.

“My work covers all our insurances, Stiles.”

“So, we’re saving tax payers’ dollars. I’m contributing to the welfare of others!”

“Not really, your antics are likely to cause me an heart attack. Wouldn’t it be a hoot if the one person most desperate to extend my life, ends up causing my death?”

Now it was Stiles’ turn to cross his arms. His dad was being unreasonable. They both startled when Derek laughed softly.

“What?” they barked like a well-rehearsed duet, just sans the perfect pitch. Derek laughed even harder.

“I see the family resemblance, is all,” he said mirthfully, pointing from one to the other. Their scowls only deepened. 

“So rude, no kisses for you,” muttered Stiles. His dad groaned.

“My point still stands,” his dad continued, leading the conversation back on track. “I want to make sure this doesn’t have any weird repercussions. Magical disappearing burns is a new one, Stiles. We need to make sure. We should probably take you to Deaton’s in the morning as well.”

Stiles balked.

“No Deaton,” he hissed in the same desperate tone most wizards did when hearing the word Voldemort. “I’m not some livestock for him to inspect. Besides, this wasn’t the first time. I’ve had burns heal fast before. Nothing happened after, no weird side effects or whatnot. Just ask Parrish.”

For all of three seconds the kitchen was perfectly quiet, sans the ticking clock. Then…

“What? Stiles!”

“What the fuck are you talking about?”

“Parrish?”

“Did Parrish burn you?”

“Why did he burn you?”

“When was this?”

“- would you two please shut -”

“Stiles! Is it any wonder I’m becoming gray before my time?”

“Hellhound better run and hide!”

Stiles threw his hands up, waving them around in a sad attempt to stop the hailstorm of questions hurled across the table. His dad and Derek were getting more and more worked up by the second, like two chemical compounds causing an exponential growth when mixed together. 

“Will you - for Christ's sake! Dad! Derek! Yo! Shut it! If you’ll just shut up I’ll explain.”

The two kept talking over each other, red-faced and agitated. Stiles swore under his breath.

“Oh man, ain't nobody’s got time for that!”

Stiles screwed his eyes shut, took a deep breath and focused. With considerably more force than intended the kitchen door banged shut. The cabinets rattled, the lamp above the table started swinging back and forth. On the counter by the fridge, a jar of pasta fell over and scattered farfalles in all directions. It had the desired effect. Both shut up immediately.

“Thank you,” said Stiles as calmly as he could. He took a deep breath and slumped heavily back in his chair. “Please refrain from more outburst until I’m done explaining, okay?”

They nodded. Stiles talked, recounting the incident at the hospital when his dad was still unconscious and Parrish told him about Lydia also being hurt .

“You burned your hands - ? _On Parrish_?” His dad looked like he'd been backhanded by the Hulk. 

“I’m gonna kill him,” snarled Derek, eyes flashing blue. Stiles threw his hands up again. He was so done with the overprotective dad/boyfriend combo.

“You’ll do no such thing, growly-wolf. Stop it! Parrish didn’t mean to hurt me. He was all kinds of sorry. A nurse came and said I needed treatment. Parrish said I accidentally burned them on hot water. They believed that, knowing I hadn’t slept a wink since you were brought in. Probably thought I was delirious or whatnot. Anyway, Parrish had already wrapped my hands in cold cloths. When the nurse came back to apply some sort of salve, the burns were gone.”

“Just like that?”

“Yep,” said Stiles, popping the P. “Just like that. Just like now. So, I seem to have an affinity for magically healing burns. It’s not working on stubbed toes, though, so I’m pretty sure I’m not immortal. Pity.”

“You can’t die from a stubbed toe, silly,” said Derek. He looked caught between worry and confusion. Stiles knew the state well, he had permanent residency there.

The sheriff looked pensive. He was also uncharacteristically quiet, head tilted slightly to the left. It was his detective pose, which meant he was putting puzzle pieces together.

“Let me see if I’ve got this right,” he started. “Parrish, who is a hellhound and the Nemeton’s last defense, burned your hands and they magically healed.” Stiles nodded. “The mysterious burn you got right by the Nemeton, and which had the same exact shape as the bloody hand print we found on said tree, also magically disappeared.”

Stiles nodded again. His dad sighed deeply.

“You know what I say about patterns, son. One is an incident, two is a coincidence. All we need now is a third to prove a pattern. The Nemeton seems to heal the injuries you get caused by or in relation to it.”

“Maybe,” said Stiles. “What I’m getting out of all this is that we should definitely go back to the Preserve and check it out more closely. I’m sure someone has been messing with it again, and I need to - “

“You need to stay away from it, that’s what needs to happen!”

The steel in his dad’s voice was stronger than ever. Reinforced even. Concrete in fact.

“I want no more injuries or whatnot. Tomorrow we’re seeing Deaton and then he’ll go out there with me to look at it more closely. You’ll not get any closer to it than 2 miles.”

Stiles flailed, mouth agape in horror.

“No, dad! Seriously? A restraining order against the Nemeton? That’s just - no. Also, I’m not getting a check up from Deaton! Come on, you know how I feel about him. Why don’t we ask Morrell instead, I’m sure she’d agree -”

“This debate is over, Stiles.”

His dad rose to his feet. Derek mirrored him. Stiles wanted to flay them both.

“Derek, you can’t possibly agree to this? You don’t trust Deaton either, I know you don’t.”

Derek’s face was back to that unreadable facade he used to put up at the time when he was alpha. Stiles had not missed it.

“We’ll be with him the entire time, Stiles. I’m not sold on him and God knows what his agenda might be. But look at it this way, it could be a great way to suss it out, see how he reacts.”

Stiles shook his head, a mirthless laugh escaping him.

“No, idiot. Deaton never reacts. Deaton just is. He’s the most serene and zen person ever. He could win the lottery without showing a shred of emotion. It’s a terrible plan. The word abysmal comes to mind.”

“You seem to forget that I can hear when people lie,” said Derek tersely. “A skip in his heart beat and I’d know.”

“I’m not even sure Deaton has a heart,” muttered Stiles. “I’m betting my Pokemon card collection he can lie like a pro and not be detected by werewolves. Don’t say I didn’t warn you. I’m going to bed.”

He rose, and walked towards the door, yanking it open again and letting it bang against the wall. He possibly stomped a little as well.

“Just like that? You’re giving up and doing as asked? Going to bed and getting some rest?” His dad sounded suspicious. Stiles could practically hear the doubt dripping from every syllable.

“I’m going aren’t I?” he replied heading for the stairs.

The last thing he heard before he reached the top of the staircase was his dad saying “That never happens. Now I’m worried.”

He didn’t know how right he was.

 

***

  
“Fucking nature!”

Stiles swore loudly as he more or less fell through a thorny shrubbery and onto the mossy ground of the Preserve. He was going on instincts and following that quiet hum that seemed to grown in intensity and sound the closer he got to the Nemeton. Sadly, it never stuck to trails.

He was getting closer. He could feel it. With each step the urgency built inside him, pushing him forward. He needed to see it. To make sure it was alright. It was his job; his responsibility. Stiles still couldn’t believe his dad and Derek had tried to stop him. They should know by now how important it was to keep the Nemeton in balance! Stiles might not know what secrets it really was hiding, all he knew was that it was important to keep the doors that multiple crazy maniacs of varying degrees, had been trying to pry open lately.

Derek was probably just trying to stay on his dad’s good side, contemplated Stiles. He rolled his eyes in annoyance. He was a total suck-up and he should be teased mercilessly for it. As for his dad, well he was just doing his parental duties. Still, it was a hassle and a nuisance when those duties weren’t in sync with Stiles’ agenda.

“They’re going to kill you when this is over,” he mumbled to himself. “This better be fucking worth it.”

Stiles had possibly, maybe - okay so definitely escaped his house to investigate this further. He idly wondered how long it would take his dad to pick the lock and put out an APB. Stiles had locked him in the downstairs bathroom using his only flawlessly working magical ability. The window was too small for him to climb through and it faced the garage, so it would take a small miracle and some werewolf hearing for anyone to pick up on any calls for help. If the sheriff was to escape, it had to be through the door. Stiles just hoped he wouldn't choke on the lavender fumes. That would be one sad way to go.

Getting around Derek had been harder. No locks, windows or walls for that matter would hold him. Thankfully for Stiles, Derek had never shown any affinity for breaking through mountain ash. As it turned out Stiles did have an emergency stash of said ash, and he was also getting better at creating the cool “toss-a-handful-of-fairy-dust-in-the-air- and-have-it-magically-form-a-circle” trick. Though honestly his looked more like a wobbly square than a circle. A trapeze even.

“I’ll never have sex again,” muttered Stiles, remembering how murderous Derek had looked when he realized what he’d done. The memory of his betrayed eyes haunted him as he took a sharp turn past a huge birch and stopped dead in his tracks.

There it was. The Nemeton.

Surprisingly, the Nemeton already had a visitor.

“What the fuck?”

Stiles squinted against the sharp rays of sun filtering through the trees. It looked like-

“Malia?”

The shape before him spun around as if startled. Which shouldn’t even be possible given her enhanced hearing and Stiles’ inability to sneak up on anyone, the deaf included.

“Stiles?”

Malia sounded confused. He walked a bit closer, regarding her carefully. As he drew nearer he could see that she also looked bewildered. More so than usual, actually.

“What are you doing out here?” he asked. Had someone called her? Was she here to check up on him? Drag him back home? He wouldn’t put it past her. Malia wasn’t known for caring or abiding by normal conventions.

“I dunno.” Malia gazed around in all directions, as if trying to pinpoint her location. “Am I… in the Preserve?”

“Yeah…” Stiles dragged the word out, wondering if she was pulling his leg. Only, Malia didn’t pull legs. She didn’t always get jokes in the traditional sense. 

“Huh,” she answered. “What are you doing here?” She cocked her head, looking genuinely curious. Not sent by anyone then, concluded Stiles with a frown.

“Checking up on the Nemeton. I think someone’s messing with it. There was a bloody hand print on top of it a few hours ago.”

“Odd,” said Malia.

“How so?”

She gestured to the freaky tree trunk. “There’s nothing there now.”

She was right. The tree was blood-free and clean as a whistle, whatever that meant. Stiles dumped down on top of it, perplexed. He let his hand run smoothly over the surface, tracing the rings in a leisurely manner. The tree’s energy thumped against his skin, reassuring and safe, and yet faintly less energetic.

“I swear it was here,” he mumbled, scratching the back of his head.

“I believe you.”

Malia sat down next to him, picking at the frayed ends of her denim shorts.

“You do?”

She nodded again. “The person who was here before me, probably cleaned it off,” she stated matter-of-factly. Stiles did a double take.

“Wait! Wait a minute! Someone was here? Not long ago? Someone not me, my dad or Lydia?

Malia sniffed the air again, whipping her head around like a neurotic owl.

“I can smell you, of course, but that’s because you’re here now. Also, you’re here so often I think it lingers. Besides, I didn’t mean your scent. Not your dad’s and Lydia’s either. Now that you mention it, I can pick up on them, just somewhat faintly. The one I’m referring to is more recent.”

She bit her bottom lip, looking as if she was searching for the right way to explain things. Stiles did his best not to appear impatient. It seldom had a positive effect on Malia.

“It feels as though the scent has been masked,” she said finally. “Or attempted to mask it, since you know, I managed to pick it up. It’s faint, yet fresh. Sort of incomplete in a way, like they tried to clean it up, but forgot a spot. It’s hard to explain,” she added with a shrug.

“Do you know who it is?” he asked breathlessly. Stiles was back on his feet, pacing nervously back and forth. Malia watched him much like an enraptured audience at a Wimbledon tennis match.

“No,” she said simply. “I only have a partial scent. It's compromised in a way so it's harder to identify.”

“So, basically what you’re saying is that you’ve got nothing?”

Stiles couldn’t help the wash of disappointment. He hadn’t expected to find much out here, but for a brief moment his hopes had swelled.

“What about the sex? Female? Male? Neither? Both? No?” He rubbed his skin. “Is there like an animal stench to it. Like said person could perhaps be working with animals as a day job, or something?”

Malia simply arched an eyebrow. Stiles took that as a no.

“Would it help if I said what kind of creature it is?” she asked. Stiles hugged her tightly.

“Yes, yes that would help tremendously. Tell me more! Tell me more! Like does it have a claw?”

Malia looked pensive. “I think maybe that was what brought me here,” she began, voice uncharacteristically soft. “I can’t really remember walking here. Just bits and pieces of it. It felt as if I was drawn here.”

Stiles laughed softly. “You probably were. Magical radar for the supernatural, remember.”

He did a sweeping gesture in the direction of the Nemeton, like a circus conductor intruding the next spectacular attraction. “You’re a supernatural being and you were lured in. It happens.”

“Maybe,” said Malia, meeting his eyes dead on for the first time since their breakup. “All I know is that the scent that pulled me here, it was a coyote.”

“Excuse me!?”

“A werecoyote to be exact. It felt very familiar.” She turned towards Stiles, looking honestly perplexed. “Do you have any idea what that means? Or what’s going on?”

Stiles was fuming, already composing a furious text to all pack members.

“There’s really not that many werecoyotes in town, Malia. It’s an easy equation, even for you.”

“Theo?” she asked. Stiles growled his affirmation.

“If Theo Raeken is fucking around - again, it’ll be the last thing he does!”

He pushed his phone back in his pocket with excess force and began walking back the same way he came from, Malia hot on his heels. They had work to do and idiots to stalk! 

 

***

 

The next few days were fairly uneventful.

No, scratch that. That wasn’t true. They were plenty eventful, just not in the way Stiles had hoped. Then again, things seldom played out the way he wanted them to, so he wasn’t even sure why he was so surprised.

His dad and Derek had been absolutely livid when he returned from the Nemeton. More precisely, his dad had been livid, while Derek hung behind, looking quietly reproachful and hurt, which was way, way worse. Stiles dealt fairly well with angry rants and threats of house arrest. Derek’s silent kicked puppy look was a whole other story. He’d calmly listened to Stiles’ excuses and explanations, and then what Malia had told him. After, he left without another word.

Stiles hadn’t heard from him since. He’d tried calling and texting, but without result. Derek was clearly hurt, and with good reason. Stiles had broken the one thing that mattered more than anything. He’d broken Derek’s trust.

His dad had come through on his promise of house arrest. Stiles was allowed out for school but little else. His Jeep was confiscated. His dad even took the time to drive it to work and park it at the impound lot behind the station. The days of simply taking away his keys were long gone. 

This in turn meant is dad would drop him off at school each morning, and collect him by the end of lacrosse practice. This was bad enough, but not something that turned too many heads. Most knew Stiles was the Sheriff's son after all. What was slightly worse was when he sent one of his deputies to pick him up. That was embarrassing, especially since they all insisted on meeting him at the door and escorting him to the squad car, only to have him sit in the back like a teenage delinquent. What little Stiles had in way of popularity and goodwill, were now a thing of the past, replaced by an escalating rumor of drug cartels and human trafficking. Even some of the teachers had started giving him a wide berth, which was awesome when it came to his forgotten Spanish homework, but downright sad when Mrs. Lindbergh from the front office visibly trembled every time they crossed paths. 

Kira did her best to cheer Stiles up. “It could be worse,” she said conversationally when a group of freshman girls fled into the bathroom with shrill squeaks. Stiles had trouble imagining how, but let it slide. He had bigger issues to worry about than his peer reputation. Like Theo Raeken and what he and his sullen band of undead chimeras were up to.

The only bright light in an otherwise bleak and Derek-free existence, was Lydia winning the case against her father. The sheriff had accompanied her to the scheduled hearing, and come back with a wide grin and gleeful tales of the shock and horror painted all over Mr. Martin and his legal legion’s faces when the judge ruled unanimously in Lydia’s and Mrs. Martin’s favor.

She’d breezed into the house a few hours later, her mother in tow. They’d cleared out her room in a matter of hours and left with such spring in their steps it had brought a tear to Stiles’ eyes. Lydia was awesome, scary and all kinds of brilliant, and he’d miss her. He was man enough to admit that. Even his dad stared after them as the car sped out of their driveway, looking a little misty eyed. Still, it was for the best.

What they wouldn’t miss much however, was Lydia’s interior design choices. By the end of the day most of the fancy cushions had been packed up and put in the cruiser ready to be donated to Goodwill. A few remained because they were comfortable as hell, all their hideousness aside. The scented soaps and candles, lavender towels and doilies from the downstairs bathroom were swiftly collected and dumped in one of the barrels out back, a leftover from last years annual Beacon Hills Sheriff Department cookout, and ceremonially burned. The neighborhood had never smelled sweeter and drew in number of their more elderly neighbors, all of them bringing cookies. It was the most fun Stiles had since his grounding started.

His punishment would last a week, with an option for pre-release if he stayed on his best behavior. Stiles swore to do his absolute best, knowing full well he’d probably end up violating the terms before long. His dad graciously allowed him to keep his computer for schoolwork, but had taken his phone. Thankfully, he was not fully on top of the wonders of social media, which meant Stiles didn’t suffer much. The worst punishment was in all honesty Derek’s absence.

Stiles missed him so much it hurt. 

  
***

  
Stiles had gathered the troops for an impromptu pack meeting at school. They were taking advantage of the odd coincident they all had a free period at the same time, as well as the many abandoned classrooms. Everyone inside, he locked the door with his mind-mojo, just to be on the safe side.

“What’s this all about, Stiles?” asked Lydia impatiently. “I haven’t been to school in weeks, I’m behind on my college recommendation letters. Coach Finstock hasn’t turned his in yet.”

“Are you even in his class this year?” asked Kira. “Why would he recommend you?”

“Why wouldn’t he?” Lydia arched an eyebrow loftily. “I received top marks in his class last year, which is commendable given his somewhat unorthodox teaching methods.”

“Okay.” Kira raised her hands defensively. “Forget I asked.”

“I haven’t done my calculus homework for next class yet, can we please get on with it?”

Liam wrung his hands, scowling at the clock on the wall. Mason looked equal parts exasperated and fond. Sometimes Stiles thought the pair of them somewhat reminded him of Scott and him at that age.

“And why is that?” asked Mason in a tone that told everyone he already knew the answer. Liam squirmed, then glanced dove-eyed in Hayden's direction. She smiled bashfully and squeezed his hand. Mason groaned and rolled his eyes like a seasoned pro. Yep, thought Stiles. Those three were like the new generation Scott, Stiles and Allison.

Speaking of Scott. He seemed to be doing better. He was back at school full time, his demeanor decidedly less gloomy. Still, something still felt slightly amiss. Like a shadow blocking out the full force of the usually so bright Scott McCall ray of sunshine and puppies energy. Stiles noticed Kira wasn’t smiling much either, and they weren’t even sitting next to each other. All was not well, yet it was better than a few weeks back. It was progress. Sometimes, progress had to be enough. At least for now. Stiles hadn't forgotten about the last time they'd butted heads, and the frankly hurtful things Scott had said. He quietly hoped he'd at least offer an apology now that he seemed more himself. It was a testament to Stiles' dwindling faith in their friendship when he wasn't even surprised or disappointed when it didn't happen. 

“Alright, I get it. We all have stuff to do, but this is important." Stiles cut through the frustrated murmurs, and miraculously they all fell silent. "Someone’s messing with the Nemeton again.”

Gasps, eyebrows raised high, and cries of “no way” quickly followed. Stiles gestured for them to fall quiet.

“What the fuck? How?” asked Liam. Mason spluttered.

“Who? Why?” he added in a shrill voice.

“Please, explain,” added Hayden. The rest nodded their agreement.

Stiles did as requested, keeping the story of how he woke feeling uneasy, knowing that something was wrong and how he’d been burned, healed and then his encounter with Malia as brief as he could.

As was Stiles’ life, the others failed to latch onto the most important piece of information.

“ _You healed_?”

Liam and Kira literally had their jaws hanging open. Lydia looked pensive, Malia confused. Somewhere to his left Stiles heard Mason mutter “intense”.

“I hardly think that’s what’s important here,” said Stiles impatiently.

“Why not?” Liam stared at him wide-eyed. “I thought fast healing was a supernatural thing. Are you a supernatural creature too? How? _What_?”

“He has magical abilities, I’d say that qualifies,” commented Hayden. “You can’t shift, though, right?”

“No,” scoffed Stiles. “Of course not.”

“Sometimes you do turn into a full-blown idiot,” offered Lydia unhelpfully. Stiles ignored her.

“Then I don’t get it.”

It was the first words Scott had uttered since they entered the classroom. “Can you heal with magic, is that it?”

Stiles shook his head. “I don’t think so. I dunno. Maybe? I stubbed my toe the other day and it’s still blue and swollen. I will have to ask Morrell about that. Can we please get back to the issue at hand?”

“You should ask Deaton,” said Scott, voice firm. “Morrell is bad news, we can’t trust her. I can’t believe you’re still talking to her at all. If anyone is messing with the Nemeton, it’s probably her. She’s just getting close to you, to use you.”

“I’m not switching magical tutors,” hissed Stiles through clenched teeth. “Also, not the focus of this meeting. Can we get back on track, please?”

“But you healed!”

Liam’s voice had increased in volume, closing in on that dangerous level where it breached doors and seeped into the corridor. Hayden shushed him. He ignored her.

“How? Is it because of Donovan? Didn’t he bite you?” Liam didn’t seem to know when to quit.

“It’s not because of Donovan,” said Stiles stiffly, not particularly happy to be reminded of one of the worst moments of his life, as well as the straw that broke the camel’s back on Scott and his friendship. A back that still wasn’t fully healed and restored. Probably never would.

“How can you be sure?”

Sometimes Liam was just like an overgrown kid, always asking questions. Of course Donovan’s bite couldn’t turn him into anything, besides a guy with a life on his conscience. Looking around the room it became clear that everyone was staring at him, hanging on to this exchange with rapt attention. So it wasn’t just Liam then. They were all wondering the same thing. Well, all except Lydia. She looked utterly bored by the conversation, busily swiping her phone. Still, it was obvious he wasn’t getting anywhere before this had been addressed.

“Okay,” he said, sliding off the desk he was sitting on top of. “I’m positive Donovan didn’t turn me into a burn-healing supernatural creature because A - Donovan was a chimera, an unsuccessful one at that. Chimeras can’t turn anyone. And B - if Donovan’s bite gave me healing powers then why oh why hasn’t the bite he gave me healed?”

While he spoke, Stiles had slowly stripped away his plaid shirt. Then, with a mostly fluid motion he wiggled out of the bright yellow t-shirt he had on underneath, exposing them all to his pale and mole-spattered torso. He did a twirl with added arm flail to guide their attention. There it was. The teeth mark of Donovan’s bite, still red and ugly on the back of his shoulder. A scar that in all likelihood would never fully heal and be a constant and permanent reminder of the night that changed him forever.

“Happy now?” Stiles asked tersely, taking the time to stare from one to the other. Hayden, Liam and Mason all nodded, faces bowed. Scott had his head cocked to one side, staring at it, his eyes narrow. He gave the tiniest of shrugs. Malia simply smiled sadly.

“Fine, if you’ve all had your peek I’m getting dressed again.”

He grabbed his shirt and fought his way back into it. Lydia cleared her throat pointedly. “Nice hickey,” she remarked coyly. Stiles blushed but didn’t comment, just grabbed the plaid shirt and put it on again in jerky movements.

“It’s obvious his healing is connected to the Nemeton and not some bite,” Lydia continued, as if discussing the weather. “If not, both Donovan’s bite and Derek’s nibbling would’ve healed already. The injuries attained while in connection to the Nemeton, either directly or indirectly, have all healed.”

“How do you reckon?” Hayden was hanging on to Lydia’s explanation with interest.

“Well,” began Lydia, clearly flattered, “This was a little before your time, but back when the darach, or Jennifer if you will, was messing with the Nemeton, Stiles crashed his Jeep in the Preserve. He knocked his head and passed out, but walked away not long after with just a trickle of blood to show for, otherwise unharmed. Injuries like that will most likely cause concussions, broken ribs from the seatbelt and lots of bruising. Hospitalization for days, perhaps weeks, is not unheard of. Yet, Stiles managed to show up in the nick of time to save the people trapped under the Nemeton.”

"You make it sound way cooler and more badass than it was," muttered Stiles self-consciously. In all honesty, he'd never really considered that to be connected to this, but Lydia might be right. 

“I didn’t know that,” said Malia, clearly surprised. Liam, Mason and Hayden looked starstruck and amazed.

“You were already connected to the Nemeton at the time. That was right after the icebaths. Adding these latest events to the mix and I think this reasoning is sound. I don’t think this latest burn was meant to maim or stop him, I think it was meant to alert him to something.”

If there had been crickets at Beacon Hills High they would be chirping right now. Lydia looked smug. The rest looked caught between confusion and awe. Lydia tended to bring that out in most people.  
  
“That seems - plausible?” Kira spoke softly and there was a note of question attached to it. Everything in their lives was worth putting question marks to, Stiles didn’t really blame her. He did agree, though. It sounded plausible.

“Can we please move on now?” he asked, glancing at the clock. Time was ticking.

“I still think you should talk to Deaton,” said Scott, as if that had anything to do with anything. At this point it seemed to be his go to phrase. Stiles was honestly sick of it.

“I still think you should sit down and watch Star Wars,” retorted Stiles feeling a childish annoyance rise. He threw in a fake smile for good measure. “It doesn’t help nagging, you’ll do it when you’re good and ready. If you’ll do it at all. Same goes for me, okay.”

“Alright, if you two are done with your male posturing, perhaps we can get a move on?”

Lydia dusted invisible lint off her shockingly short skirt. It truly was a testament to her powers at school that the principal didn’t send her home to change. Most of her hem lines didn’t just violate the dress code, they decimated them. Not that he minded much. Or at all. Lydia had great legs. And Stiles was getting off topic.

“I’d love to,” he said, getting his head back on track. “In fact, I’ve been trying to get to the crux of the matter for the past ten minutes. If you’re all quite done marveling at my weird healing powers, I’d like to discuss the more alarming part - namely Theo.” The last word was spat out with unbridled disgust. “I think it’s Theo messing with the Nemeton.”

“Why?”

Scott’s shoulders were raised stiffly, his arms crossed. “Theo is a tool and I’ll never forgive him for trying to kill me, or how he aided the Dread Doctors, but with them gone, he’s powerless. What could he possible be doing to the Nemeton now? And why would he?”

Stiles shrugged. “Perhaps that’s your answer right there. He’s powerless. We all know he wants power. He was willing to lie, cahoot and kill for it. He told me himself he wants to be alpha. Perhaps he’s trying to tap into the Nemeton to achieve it. Jennifer Blake did something similar, remember. We might not know the reasons yet, but I just know that someone is messing with it. I can feel it. The balance is disturbed. There was a bloody hand print on top of it, now it’s gone. But I saw it. My dad saw it.Lydia saw it. When I got back there yesterday, Malia was there. You smelled him, didn’t you? Theo had been there, right?”

Everyone turned to Malia, who so far hadn’t said anything. She slumped further down into her chair looking oddly forlorn.

“I never said that,” she began defensively. “I never said Theo had been there. I said I scented a coyote had been there, someone like me. A werecoyote.”

“Hah!” cried Stiles triumphantly. “Theo is a werecoyote. Or part one anyone, he’s admitted to that. There are no other werecoyotes around, ergo it’s most likely him, the sneaky scoundrel!”

“That we know of,” corrected Lydia. “There are no other werecoyotes around that we know of. We can’t rule out someone new. This town is a magnet, or have you forgotten that? You’ve jumped to a conclusion without proof.”

Stiles shook his head. “The Nemeton isn’t sending out supernatural distress signals anymore. Not since I closed it. I’ve been going there several times a week to make sure. It’s been perfectly balanced. And I know I can’t prove it’s Theo. Which is why we need to confirm it.”

“What are you suggesting exactly?” asked Mason. “That we trail Theo? See what he’s up to?”

“Exactly!”

Stiles beamed. He liked Mason. Mason had potential. He idly wondered if he should take him under his wing, give him the Stiles 101.

“Won’t he spot us coming a mile away?” asked Scott dubiously. “He’s a douche, but he’s still a douche with enhanced senses. I don’t see us succeeding in being inconspicuous.”

“Then let’s not.” Stiles grinned manically. “Don’t bother hiding. Don’t bother concealing that we’re keeping an eye on him. Let the bastard sweat and worry. Let him try to dodge our trails. He’s an idiot. He’s bound to mess up and give something away.”

“Of all your plans, this is your worse yet,” said Scott sullenly. The unspoken 'I would never have suggested this' hung in the air between them. Stiles shrugged.

“Whatever. You’re on first watch, buddy. Have at it.”

 

***

 

By the end of the week mission ‘Trail Theo’ had gleaned little in terms of actual results. They’d learned that Theo had a penchant for baked goods and iced coffees. That he liked to do his homework at the library downtown after school. According to Kira he was mid-way through season 4 of Breaking Bad. Scott reported back that he enjoyed reading, hiking and long walks on the beach. Stiles suspected that was his lame attempt to tell Stiles how inane this idea was. Stiles had to agree. It was lame. It was also their only lead, so he clung to it. Until he was forced to drop it. Forced by law. Or to be more precise, threat thereof.

His dad was sipping a coffee listening to the local radio station when Stiles came down to breakfast. The scene was a little too domestic and serene for his liking. Soft pop on the radio, freshly brewed coffee and buttered toasts. Stiles smelled a setup. Especially since the mornings at the Stilinski household usually consisted of hastily buttered bread and a lot of yelling. In short, Stiles’ trouble radar was wailing, red and blue lights flashing.

“Good morning, son.”

Stiles narrowed his eyes, sitting slowly down in his chair, almost expecting it to explode. It didn’t.

“What’s going on?” he asked suspiciously. The radio was set to Golden Eighties Classics. His dad despised 80s music. In fact, he consistently referred to it as “Bubblegum trash.” Stiles had never understood the meaning behind it. He suspected there was none.

“Nothing much,” said the Sheriff airily, taking a sip of his coffee. “Just the usual spiel. Larry Wilkinson set up another meth lab down by the riverfront. Mrs. Hudson down the road has reported her cat missing. My son and his friends are harassing a classmate. That sort of thing.”

Another sip. In the background Cindy Lauper wailed about True Colors. Stiles did a decent imitation of a trout stuck on land. It was neither pretty nor convincing.

“Excuse me?”

The Sheriff sighed with the air of an old man. “That is exactly what I did. Excuse you, that is. Not that it did me any good. Mr. Raeken had a compelling case. Including pictures. Lots of them. Also, a 20 minute clip of Humpty and Dumpty inching along walls, rolling over the hood of cars and the like. This while following his son home from the library.”

“Humpty and Dumpty?”

“I believe you know them as Liam and Mason. Hardly inconspicuous.”

The sheriff sighed again, rubbing his temples for good measure.

“I don’t know what you’re up to, Stiles, but I suspect this has something to do with that terrifying wake-up call you gave me a few nights ago. No matter, you can’t trail Theo Raeken just because you want to. It’s called stalking. There are laws against it, and I can’t ignore that. Not when you’re not even trying to hide it.”

He held out a finger when Stiles started to protest. He knew that finger well. It did him no favors to ignore it.

“I know you haven’t been directly involved in the trailing, but I suspect you’re the mastermind. It ends now!”

“But dad! I think he’s the one messing with the Nemeton,” whined Stiles. “Malia smelled werecoyote at the scene, and since the moment we started tracking him, everything has been peachy keen. Not a glitch in the matrix. Nothing. That can’t be a coincident!”

The sheriff bestowed him with a glare of unconcealed disappointment.

“You know better than that, Stiles. Of course it could be a coincident. In any case, now you get to test your theory. Stop trailing Theo. If the disturbance starts up again I’ll admit you have a stronger case, but until then, it ends.”

“Spoilsport,” muttered Stiles darkly.

“It’s a parental prerogative. In this case I even have the law on my side. Now get to school.”

Stiles reluctantly rose, dragging his feet towards the door like a member of a chain gang. “Aren’t you coming?” he asked when his dad made no indication of moving.

“Sorry, I have to drive out to the old warehouse district. According to a distraught land owner his building disappeared in the dead of night. I have to take that one personally, he’s refusing to talk to the deputies.”

“How can a building disappear?”

Stiles’ investigative ions were firing on all ends.

“How can a man sprout claws and fangs? How can a tree trunk be dangerous?” His dad clipped on his belt and grabbed his badge. “Most of the buildings down there are standing on faith alone, a strong gust of wind could blow them over. The county has been on a streak to tear down dangerous constructions lately. I suspect there's a perfectly logical explanation for it all.”

“So, Parrish will take me, then?” asked Stiles hopefully. His dad grinned widely and a little bit cruelly.

“Nope, take the bus, sonny.”

Stiles shuddered. He did not do well on buses. Buses also did not do well with him. It was a mutually destructive relationship and a punishment on par with house arrest. His dad was an evil genius. Or just plain evil.

“If I take the bus and survive, can I ask a tiny favor?”

The sheriff grabbed a toast, nibbled on it with a stony expression that Stiles hoped meant he was mulling it over.

“Dad, please? I haven’t talked to Derek in days. He’s not answering any of my calls. I - I want to apologize,” he added, again overwhelmed with guilt. “I betrayed his trust with the mountain ash. I should grovel at his feet a little.”

His dad snorted. “I can’t remember you doing much groveling at my feet, kiddo.”

“You yelled at me for two hours straight and grounded me, that’s better than an apology. You would’ve just assumed I was playing you if I grovelled. You’d laugh in my face and double my punishment.”

“True,” the sheriff nodded, then fell into silence again.

“Daaaad!” whined Stiles. “I’m missing the bus! Can I go to Derek’s after school?”

“I expect steak for dinner tomorrow as a reward, but yes, alright. You can go. Strangely enough I miss him a little. Who’d have thought.”

Stiles was out the door with a whoop before the Sheriff had finished the sentence.

 

 


	12. Chapter 12

“Derek! Open up! Please. I know you’re home, grumpy. I see the lights are on. You never leave without turning off the lights, you energy-conscious piece of hotness. Deeeereeeek!”

Stiles was hammering on the front door of Derek’s apartment, not even bothering to be quiet about it. He was not leaving until he’d said his piece, grovelled pathetically and begged for forgiveness. Stiles was a proud dude and hated being wrong, but when it came to the important stuff he wasn’t above eating some humble pie.

Especially not if the reward might be Derek eating him out. Or vise versa. He was versatile. He was also getting way ahead of himself. 

“Deeereeek!”

He dialed up the whining a notch, knowing how annoying Derek found this.

“Open the door, Derek. You know I can open this easily enough if I put my mind to it. Like, literally. I’d rather you invite me in, though. I don’t want to intrude. I don’t want to impose. But I do want to apologize.”

Still nothing. Stiles cursed silently. This was not going too well. 

“I’ve brought a peace offering,” he tried again, voice edging close to soprano tones. He sounded ridiculous. “I’ve bought that fancy Greek yogurt you seem to love so much.”

Movement.

The light shining out from the gap between the door and the threshold flickered, indicating motion. Stiles held his breath, heart hammering away. A moment later the safety latch was removed and the door opened. Stiles’ breath hitched when his eyes fell on Derek’s otherworldly face. It looked murderous and angry, but was still a work of art.

“Hey,” he said tentatively, mentally cringing at the way his voice broke. He was nervous, alright. Very nervous. Scared-to-death-he-was-getting-dumped-nervous.

Derek didn’t say anything. Just glared. He was good at that. Professional even. Stiles swallowed audibly. This was not going according to plan. Not that he had one per say.

“You gonna invite a fella in, or just glare daggers?”

Derek shrugged. Stiles had no clue how to interpret that.

“You’re gonna have to spell it out for me, dude. Yes or no?”

“Y - E - S,” said Derek tersely, opening the door a little wider. Stiles ducked under his arm and wormed his way inside. Derek closed the door and held out his hand. Stiles grabbed it gratefully and shook it like an overeager intern ready to impress the boss. Derek rolled his eyes.

“The yogurt, Stiles,” he said nodding towards the sizable container he was clutching. Stiles dropped his hand and handed it over. He was possibly blushing everywhere.

Derek snatched the container out of his hands and marched back towards the living room. Stiles trailed behind him, working very hard to staunch the word vomit of epic proportions he felt building up. He sensed it might not go over too well with the frame of mind Derek seemed to be in. Instead, he sat down on one of the relatively new chairs, waiting patiently for Derek to return from the kitchen. When he did he’d brought a can of Coke for Stiles and a spoon for himself. He opened the yogurt and began eating, doing a complicated dance with his eyebrows that Stiles assumed was meant to be his cue.

“So,” he began hesitantly, wringing his hands. “I made a huge mistake. Huge. Huger. Hugest. Hulk.”

Derek’s eyes rolled in the universal sign of “duh.”

“Humongous mistake,” continued Stiles. “Enormous. One might say it was intergalactic in its scope.”

Derek licked his spoon. Sinfully. That fucker. He was milking this. Torturing him. Stiles hated him. Not really. Not at all in fact, but still an asshole. Ginormous asshole. 

“I shouldn’t have trapped you with the mountain ash. I know better. I know you’d listened to me if I’d just taken the time to sit you down and explain it. I guess I kind of figured you didn’t want to openly disagree with my dad, seeing as he’s still of at that bleach-state when it comes to our relationship. It’s commendable of you to want to make friends with him, I guess. It just pissed me off, and I wanted to check it out at soon as possible. So I - ”

Stiles took a deep breath, holding Derek’s unwavering gaze. “I just acted. I didn’t think. I - I betrayed your trust, and I’m sorry.”

He waited.

And waited.

Then he waited some more.

Derek continued to eat his yogurt, taking the time to lick his spoon with as much tongue as possible, all while looking perfectly impassive. When he began scraping the container, Stiles was closing in on his breaking point. When he used his finger to scoop up the last drops and then licked it, taking the time to suck it in and out of his mouth, Stiles broke like a fine cup of china dropped on a tiled floor.

“Oh for the love of God! Derek, stop that! Either toss me out or forgive me already!”

Derek rose abruptly making Stiles jump and squeal just a little.

“I’ll toss you alright, you little shit,” he grumbled, dropping the spoon and the container on the table with a clank. He advanced on Stiles, who in turn curled further into the chair. “But I won’t toss you out,” he whispered as he leaned over him, a positively feral grin spreading across his stubbly face. “I’m going to toss you on my bed and have my way with you. You’re going to shut up and enjoy it. You do that and I’ll consider forgiving you.”

Stiles whimpered in anticipation. Derek’s smile widened, showing a bit of fang. Stiles groaned. Not long after he moaned. Loudly. It was a good thing Derek didn’t have any next door neighbors.

 

  
***

 

  
“So, does this mean you’ve forgiven me?”

Stiles laid spread-eagle on top of Derek’s rumpled sheets, perfectly sated and boneless in that way only a good fuck could provide.

“It’s okay if you haven’t. We can totally do the horizontal mambo again, if you need more incentive or like, time to mull it over. Just give me fifteen minutes to recharge.”

“You’re an idiot,” mumbled Derek. He was laying on his side, one hand alternating between stroking Stiles’ face and playing with his hair.

“Well, I’m an idiot in love,” smiled Stiles goofily. “And you knew perfectly well I was a grade A jerk even before entering into this arrangement. My idiocy, assholiness and recklessness have never been hidden from you.

“No,” murmured Derek, “instead you hide your kindness and your fearlessness. I still saw that, though. You also hid a spectacular ass behind too baggy pants.”

His hand had moved south. Stiles shuddered as it ghosted across his back and towards its intended target, leaving goosebumps in its wake.

“Remind me to send Lydia a gift basket,” purred Derek, cupping one cheek and squeezing.

“Are you waxing poetic about my asset again?” teased Stiles.

“It’s fant _ass_ tic,” retorted Derek cheekily. Stiles groaned.

“Your jokes are horrible, Derek. Your puns even worse. I’m sad on your behalf. Devastated even. Think of me! I have to endure these lame attempts at the funny.”

His only reply was a soft laugh. They continued to lie there in companionable silence, just stroking and petting each other. Eventually the rumble of Stiles’ stomach coaxed them out of bed. He foraged into the kitchen again, his expectations low.

“Holy smokes! He shopped! Real food!”

Stiles all but climbed into the fridge in pure elation. He emerged carrying a huge stack of various toppings.

“You planning to eat all that? Or are you like a hamster, you know hoarding?”

Derek had padded in behind him, his pajama bottoms hanging on to his hips in a gravity defying way.

“Shush, and never compare me to small rodents again,” replied Stiles giddily. His words were muffled by food and the huge grin he couldn’t hide. Derek had stocked his fridge for him. It warmed his heart in ways he probably couldn’t put to words. Just as well, since he was so preoccupied with stuffing himself silly with deliciousness. Derek hadn’t spared anything.

A while later Stiles laid groaning on Derek’s couch, but for entirely different reasons than usual.

“I think I’m having a food baby, Derek! Look!” He pulled up his t-shirt, exposing his abdomen. “I’m huge! I’m in my third trimester.”

“You’re a moron,” mumbled Derek from behind a book. He patted Stiles’ stomach absentmindedly. Stiles purred like a kitten. This was nice. He could get used to this. Still he couldn’t relax. The thought of Theo and what he might be up to still haunted him. Derek must have sensed it.

“You’re thinking very loudly, you know,” he commented, then turned a page. “What’s on your mind?”

“Theo,” said Stiles through gritted teeth. “He’s up to something, I can feel it. Dad made me stop trailing him.” He pouted.

“So I heard.”

Stiles spluttered.

“Who told you that?”

Derek grinned softly. “Your father. He wanted to know if I knew anything about this. Something about a complaint and threat of restraining orders.”

“Not for me, though,” said Stiles proudly, as if dodging a restraining order was a feat worth celebrating. “I’ve been on house arrest.”

“Which is the only reason why you haven’t been on his tail, am I right?” Derek arched an eyebrow. Stiles grimaced.

“Perhaps. It’s just, something is going on and no one seems to take this seriously. Not really. I get the feeling people are just humoring me. Kira is worried about Scott, Scott is depressed and acting odd, Malia is - well Malia. Lydia is the only one acting somewhat normally and nothing about Lydia Martin has ever been normal. Which means everything is screwed.”

“You’re not making much sense.”

Stiles threw his hands up, knocking Derek’s book to the floor.

“When have I ever? I think I need a crash course in communication or something. I talk and talk, and yet people never listen, understand or care. It’s frustrating!”

“What’s the problem now?” asked Derek calmly. Stiles drew a deep breath trying to boil it down to something intelligible.

“I dunno, I guess it’s mainly Scott,” admitted Stiles quietly. “I know I’m repeating myself, but since we had that huge falling out, everything has been different. He sort of came around a bit, and we agreed we needed to talk it all out. Only that never happened. As you know, Scott was supposed to go talk to Morrell to help him get out of his depressed funk after what happened. I totally get that he’s affected by what happened. I’m not saying he shouldn’t grieve and all. Of course he should. It’s just -”

He paused for a while, trying to connect dots that he wasn’t even sure were related.

“I guess I just have a bad feeling is all. Sometimes it feels as if Scott’s not entirely here. Like he’s not fully in control. I’m probably paranoid given my history, but after he clashed with the beast, his eyes were odd. It’s like I keep expecting it to happen again. Sometimes I even think I see it, but when I look closer there’s nothing there.”

He shrugged. “I’m probably seeing ghosts where there’s nothing. I dunno. And now that Deaton’s back he seems more himself, or at least more like how he was before and during our fight. He keeps harping on about how I should ditch Morrell and go with Deaton instead, which frankly pushes all my anti-buttons. I never liked Deaton to begin with, and this massive campaign everyone seems to be joining, just makes me more skeptical, you know.”

Derek didn’t respond at first. Stiles fiddled with his t-shirt. The edges were fraying. Kind of like him.

“You think I’m nuts too, don’t you?” he finally asked. Derek surprised him by grabbing hold of his shoulders and turning him around so they were face to face.

“No, silly. I don’t think that. I’ve known you long enough to trust your instincts. You have a nagging feeling something is up with Scott and Deaton, then I say we look into it.”

“Really?”

Derek nodded. “Really. Only, let me do it. You haven’t got so much as an inconspicuous bone in your body. Scott would smell you a mile away at any rate.”

“Won’t he smell you, too?”

Derek grinned widely. “It’s possible to mask your scent. I would’ve taught Scott that if he’d ever stood still long enough to listen to anything I had to offer. I’m not worried about Scott.”

“Awww, your creepy stalker skills comes in handy again.” Stiles squeezed him tightly, patting Derek’s back affectionately. “Creepy wolf, you will roam again.”

Derek promptly hit Stiles with one of the cushions. Naturally that resulted in a pillow fight Stiles was bound to lose. Not that he cared. His punishment was anything but cruel and involved multiple orgasms. You could say he ended up a sore loser, but it was all so very worth it.

 

***

 

Stiles was bored. So incredibly, all-consumingly bored it was bordering on inhumane. Chemistry homework tended to bring out the worst in him, case in point. He was currently holed up in his room, still very much grounded and with an essay on covalent bonds to finish before tomorrow. Life was cruel.

He was also incredibly, all-consumingly, achingly horny. Tortuously so. It was as if his horniness was inversely proportional to the absence of Derek. The less he saw him, the more he wanted to jump his bones. Sadly, his hot-like-the-sun boyfriend was still expressively forbidden to come over. Stupid house arrest with its no visiting privileges, and his stupid dad for enforcing it so rigorously.

Stiles tossed his pen across the room in frustration. The sheriff had, in a rare fit of genius, recruited all of their neighbors to help keep watch of the house when he wasn’t around. Sadly for Stiles they were surrounded by nosy old ladies on all fronts, the kind that loved to peek out from behind crocheted curtains, and knew everything that went on within a mile radius of their own house. Werewolves and their super-hearing had nothing on this league of gossiping grannies.

There was a knock on his door and Stiles instantly snapped to attention, bending over his desk looking as studious as possible. His door opened and the sheriff peeked inside, decked in full uniform ready for work.

“Hey, just wanted to let you know I’m heading out for my shift now. I won’t be home until about midnight. I left some money on the counter. You can order something later if you’re hungry.”

Stiles nodded, not looking up from his notes. “Sure thing,” he muttered, grabbing a nearby pencil. He stuck it in his mouth and began chewing it. He more felt than saw his dad roll his eyes.

“Fine, Stiles. Give me the silent treatment, I don’t care. You earned this punishment, you suffer through it. Don’t forget I let you visit Derek yesterday to beg forgiveness, that should give me some favorable points.”

Stiles pretended to write something down with utmost concentration. “New day, new grudges,” he muttered flatly. His dad sighed in exasperation.

“Fine, be a dick about it. Just be a dick about it inside the house. No leaving the premises, unless it’s on fire. And no,” he added, voice sharp, “that was not meant as a suggestion, so please refrain from any form of arson while I’m on shift. Also, no visitors! I have eyes everywhere.”

He left with a mad cackle. A few minutes later Stiles heard the cruiser start. Half an hour later he was tempted to look for flammable liquids. Just a small kitchen fire? What harm could it do, really?

He’d no sooner finished the thought before the sound of sirens filtered through his window. With each passing second the sound grew in intensity. Three minutes later an ambulance pulled up outside Mrs. Watson’s house next door. Panic bloomed inside his chest as Stiles ran down the stairs and outside. He might moan and complain a lot about his nosy neighbors, but secretly he loved these silly geriatrics to bits. Especially Mrs. Watson who was a wizard in the kitchen. Her cinnamon rolls were simply to die for.

Some of the other neighbors were already milling nearby, necks craned. Stiles caught the eye of Mrs. Edison across the street who looked particularly upset. He was about to leave the driveway to walk over to her when she shook her head and waggled a wrinkled finger. “Stay put, young man,” she admonished. “Or I will have to call your father.”

“But,” Stiles spluttered gesturing uselessly towards Mrs. Watson’s house. “I can’t just stand here and do nothing!”

Mrs. Edison did a remarkable impression of an enraged porcupine, causing Stiles to back away and create a safe distance between them. She didn’t look like much, hunched-backed and near-blind as she was, but she exuded the air of a stern school-mistress circa 1898, the kind that you didn’t give lip unless you wanted to taste her cane.

Before she could give any form of retort, a gurney was wheeled out of the house, a pale-faced Mrs. Watson nestled into several blankets and a oxygen mask secured over her nose and mouth.

“What happened?” yelled Stiles, catching the attention of one of the EMTs.

“Broken hip I think,” he replied. His partner counted down from three and they hoisted the gurney into the ambulance and shut the doors. “Looks like she took a tumble off one of those small stepladders. She had one by the living room window facing your house. It looked like she’d set up some sort of base camp there, almost like a stakeout.” He shook his head in bewilderment. “Old people are weird. Probably watching birds or something. My gran does that.”

Stiles cursed under his breath. Stupid woman. Not to mention his stupid dad who undoubtedly put her up to it. He also cursed the brittle bones of old ladies, not that it would do much good. The EMT looked like he wanted to ask more questions, so Stiles made a hasty retreat back into the house. It was only a matter of time before Mrs. Edison made good on her threat to call his dad, or worse yet, she might elbowed her way in to “babysit” him. Stiles shuddered at the thought. She used to do that a lot in the time after his mom died. Those were not happy memories. Not one bit.

Safely inside, Stiles took a page out of Mrs. Watson’s book and set up camp by one of the living room windows with a view of the street. He peered out from behind the curtains like a seasoned housewife, squinting through the binoculars he’d retrieved from his dad’s office.

The Pensioners Club lingered a while after the ambulance sped off, but soon began to disperse. Mrs. Edison was the last to go. Stiles held his breath when she paused to stare in his direction, perhaps contemplating checking up on him. In the end, she shuffled back to her own house and the street returned to its normal suburban bliss. For a split second Stiles thought he registered movement along the hedge separating their house and Mrs. Watson’s. A few minutes of intense staring later, Stiles concluded it was probably nothing. Or a cat. Mrs. Watson had a lot of those. Satisfied that the circus was over, Stiles abandoned his post and returned to his chemistry nightmare, thankful for the distraction and yet still horny as hell.

Wait a fucking minute!

He all but fell out of his chair and then more crawled than walked over to his bed, looking for his phone, currently hidden under his pillow. Silly dad. He’d locked it in his safe in the office. There wasn’t a lock in the house Stiles couldn’t bend to his will these days. He hit speed dial laughing giddily. His heart sped up the instant Derek grunted out a muffled “Stiles?” on the other end.

“Dude, the coast is clear on the East flank.”

Stiles ran over to his window to make sure that his dad hadn’t shipped over reinforcement from the local retirement center. Somehow he didn’t put it past him. Thankfully Mrs. Watson’s driveway was deserted and the house dark. Old folks had bad eyesight, right? They would totally turn on all the lights if there was anyone inside.

“You’re making zero sense,” replied Derek in a hushed tone.

“Why are you whispering?” asked Stiles.

“I’m trailing Scott, remember?”

Derek sounded a bit exasperated. Stiles had totally forgot. Lydia was totally right as usual. A horny guy was a stupid guy.

“Oh, right.” He fidgeted, torn between absolutely wanting to know what Scott got up to most of the day, and desperately wanting to hook up with Derek.  Like right the fuck now.

“What’s he up to?” he asked, giving his inner angel and devil more time to battle out how to play it. Stiles heard paper rustling.

“Have you been taking notes?” he asked, grinning gleefully.

“No,” answered Derek way too harshly, which meant that he totally had. He was adorable.

“Sure you haven’t. Give me a quick summary.”

“He went straight home after school. He’s been in his room for most of the afternoon, mostly just staring into the air. There was a brief attempt to do his English homework, but it didn’t look promising.”

“Crap. That’s due tomorrow. What’s he doing now?”

“He’s gone to work at Deaton’s. I followed him here, he went in about ten minutes ago. I have to wait here for him to finish, I can’t get too close, the animals will pick up on me and get restless. I have an unfortunate effect on smaller creatures.”

“Pity,” said Stiles, not even remotely meaning it. His devil side had won out.

“You’re being sarcastic and cryptic. That’s never a good sign.” Derek’s voice betrayed hits of amusement and weariness.

“I know for a fact that you have a very desirable effect on slightly larger creatures. Me for instance.” Stiles did his best to sound alluring. He suspected he came off as more of a dork than anything. “I repeat, the coast is clear on the east flank,” he stage whispered.

Derek sighed. “You know I don’t speak nerd Stiles. You need to be more specific.”

“Mrs. Watson broke her hip spying on me and was taken to hospital, which means that you can do what you do best, namely creep in my bedroom window and have your wicked way with me.” He paused for effect then added innocently. “Unless you want to continue staring at Deaton’s clinic for the next few hours.”

Derek was there eleven minutes later.

 

***

 

The second time it happened, mirrored the first.

Only this time no one came rushing into his room in a panic. The Sheriff was on another night shift and Lydia had moved out. No one was around to hear Stiles’ screams and labored breaths as he sat panting in his bed, completely drenched in sweat and his heart doing a valiant attempt to beat its way out of his chest.

He stumbled to the bathroom like a drunk fratboy and didn’t stop throwing up until there was nothing left but stomach acid. Stiles collapsed on the cold tiles and laid there for an immeasurable amount of time, throat burning while trying and failing to remember what he’d dreamed about before waking.

The buzzing in his blood, the goosebumps on his skin all told him what he already knew: Someone had messed with the Nemeton again. Someone was trying to break down its defenses and crack open the door Stiles had shut only weeks ago.

The frustrating part was he had no idea who or why anyone would do that. Sure, Valack had harped on about power. Stiles had no doubt the Nemeton was powerful. Or harboring something powerful. He also knew with every fiber of his being that it should stay were it was, safely behind locked doors. He still didn't know what those powers were and why so many questionable characters seemed to crave it so desperately. He also had no one to turn to for answers. He'd asked Morrell about it back when they first started the lessons, but she's simply smiled benignly and spun some tale about how it could change the world. It had sounded like complete New Age crap. 

When the worst of the cold sweats had passed, Stiles scrambled to his feet, splashed his face with water and shuffled back into his room. He needed to go check on it, burns be damned. At least he now knew they’d heal, which made it less of a risk. He briefly considered calling Derek, but decided against it. He’d only insist on waiting till morning or call his dad for backup, and there was no way in hell his dad would allow Stiles even within shouting radius of the Nemeton after what happened the last time.

Alone it was.

Taking care not to turn on too many lights in case one of his many nosy neighbors should see it, Stiles fumbled around his room with only the light from his phone to guide him, looking for shoes and clothing. At one point he stepped on something and almost took a tumble. Cursing under his breath Stiles shone the light on the offending object.

It was a book.

“Charisma?”

He read the title, frowning. He couldn’t remember this book. He picked it up curiously, noting the author’s name as Michael Coney. It wasn’t on his required reading list, that much Stiles knew.

“Derek must have left it here,” he mumbled, placing it on his desk. It wasn’t important anyway. He had a magical tree to tend to.

 

  
*

  
“For Christ’s sake, Stiles! This burn looks horrid!”

Lydia scrunched her nose in disdain, then handed him a cotton pad drenched in antiseptics as well as a handful of gauze.

“No, no, Lydia, you need to do it!”

Stiles took a step back, shaking his head. Lydia rolled her eyes. Probably. It was hard to see in the semi-darkness of the Preserve.

“Okay, you big baby. Sit down and hold your arm still.”

She pushed him down on a nearby root not far from where she’d parked her car.

“Do we really need to do this?” whined Stiles. “It'll heal after all.” He grimaced, opting to not look directly at the red welts on his arm.

“I’m not risking it,” said Lydia briskly. “Besides, it looks like you’ve rolled around in the moss. There are bits of forest stuck in some of these. Man up!”

Stiles’ subsequent screams scared most of the nocturnal wildlife in a one mile radius. Predictably Lydia showed little mercy and even less sympathy.

“Why did you call me and not Derek,” she asked speculatively while Stiles did a sad attempt at dressing his own wounds. It was not easy with his right arm temporarily out of commission.

“Because he, like my dad, would flay me alive for coming out here again and risking this.” He gestured to the haphazardly wrapped arm. He looked like failed mummy.

“What makes you so sure I won’t do the same?”

Stiles laughed. “You’re entirely too practical for that. You’re dying to know what I saw over there and to work out what is going on, and you know I’ll heal. Basically you don’t love me the same. And you love the mystery more.”

He pouted. Lydia socked him in the arm. Thankfully not the injured one, but still hard enough to bruise. So yeah, technically he had two injured arms now. Awesome.

“What happened this time?” she asked, not even bothering to correct him.

“Well,” said Stiles with fake bravado, “I got a bit closer this time before I was branded like some cattle. Also, the burn isn’t as big as the last time, as you saw. It’s still a hand print, but just a partial one. Which is odd,” he added with a frown. “The last time when I reached the Nemeton there was a hand print on top of it that matched my burn. This time there were two hand prints, and yet I only got a partial copy.”

“That is peculiar,” mused Lydia. “Then again, everything about this is peculiar.”

“You’re not helping by pointing out the obvious.”

The badly wrapped burn was already itching, something Stiles by now knew meant it was healing. “I need your mega mind, Lydia. Not your brilliance at snark, legendary as it might be.”

Lydia didn’t comment. In the dim light from his flashlight Stiles could see her nose was crinkled and her eyes narrowed. He forced himself to sit still and not disturb her. A torturous while later she spoke again.

“You told me before that you can sense the connection to the Nemeton right? Like a physical sensation?”

Stiles nodded.

“Yeah, it’s stronger the closer I am, but it always stays with me somehow. It’s like a calming hum in the background. It’s hard to explain.”

“We’re fairly close to the Nemeton now, right?”

Stiles nodded again.

“Can you feel it?”

“Yeah.”

Lydia nodded as if she was checking of facts, or making mental notes. Stiles still had no clue what she was getting at.

“Would you say it’s at its normal level right now, this connection you feel. Considering how close we are, I mean.”

Stiles was a bit taken aback by the question. He’d never really been able to quantify his connection to the Nemeton. How did you even measure something like that? Yet, it was an interesting question. Important even. He reached out, found that invisible thread that connected them, visualizing it. It was still strong, still unbroken and whole. Except - huh. He hadn’t even noticed that at first.

“It’s still strong, but -.” He paused to find the right words. “It feels a bit faded somehow. Like it’s less vibrant in a way. And it sort of feels like it’s pulsating. One moment stronger, then it dims and so on. Or maybe I’m just projecting?”

Lydia shook her head, gathering up her supplies. “That’s what I was afraid of,” she said and gestured for Stiles to get up and walk with her.

“I have a theory,” she began, setting a brisk pace. “To paint you a picture I think someone is trying to metaphorically break down the door you closed in the Nemeton. They don’t have the key, so they’re going for blunt force instead. I suspect the hand prints are weakening your bond. One hand print - huge burn in the exact same shape. It was the call-out from the Nemeton to you, to show you what was going on. The first one was a mirror image. This second one, though…”

Lydia weaved in and out between low hanging branches and thorny bushes with ease. Stiles on the other hand kept getting slashed in the face by wayward leaves and shit.

“The second one what?” he asked in exasperation, swerving clear of some poison ivy.

“The second one was not just one fist hammering on the door, but two. And yet the Nemeton only managed a quarter warning to you.”

“Only? I got the message loud and clear, thanks!”

“Semantics, Stiles. You know what I mean. It’s like reverse proportionality. They’ve found a weak spot and with each blow the structure weakens. We need to either rebuild the wall or eliminate our enemy.”

“There’s only one problem with that,” muttered Stiles darkly. “We haven’t got the foggiest clue who the enemy is. Trailing Theo has been terminated for now as you know.”

“Perhaps we should set up some sort of surveillance,” suggested Lydia. “Take turns to keep watch by it, or set up some sort of camera or whatnot.”

Stiles had to admit it was a good idea. It was the best they had at any rate. The only real headache was locating The Nemeton. It moved around a lot, and so far the only one beside himself that seemed prolific at finding it was Parrish. And he never seemed to remember how he got there, which was a slight inconvenience.

They walked on in silence. Or near silence. Stiles swore a lot. After a few minutes, Lydia suddenly came to a halt, a low hitch escaping her. Stiles soon realized why.

Allison’s grave.

“It looks beautiful,” murmured Lydia softly. Stiles had to agree. It was in stark contrast to the regal tombstone in the Beacon Hills Memorial Graveyard where she’d been officially laid to rest months ago. This was a more fitting resting place for her, though. Among the trees, covered in wildflowers and a plain white stone with the initials AA carved into it. Stiles knew it was the stone Allison and Scott had used to leave messages to each other by the bluff when they were sneaking off to see each other. Scott had carried it back here himself, carving the letters into it with his claws.

“I miss her,” whispered Lydia, voice cracking. Stiles instinctively grabbed her hand and squeezed.

“We all do. We always will.” He paused, fighting back tears of his own. “We’ll never forget her. She’s always with us.”

He allowed Lydia a moment as she sank to her knees, tears streaming down her face. Stiles offered her some of his gauze in lieu of a handkerchief. He didn’t need it anymore anyway. His burns were already healed.

“Somehow it doesn’t feel like it’s entirely over,” he mused, more to himself than anything. Lydia looked up at him, startled, eyes red-rimmed and puffy.

“What do you mean?”

Stiles shrugged uselessly. “I dunno, this whole thing with the beast and Valack wanting to open the Nemeton to get to its powers, whatever they might be. I know we closed it, stopped the Dread Doctors and destroyed the beast, but I have this nagging feeling like we’ve missed something. Like we’ve missed a vital part of the picture.”

“That’s not particularly comforting,” mumbled Lydia wearily. Stiles couldn’t agree more.

 

  
***

 

  
“So, you want us to take turns watching the Nemeton? Trailing Theo wasn’t enough?”

Scott sounded somewhere between annoyed and incredulous. As if Stiles had just suggested something outrageous and inconvenient. Like a root canal on a healthy tooth.

They were once again huddled together in an empty classroom at school. Stiles was now officially befuddled by the fact that there was always an empty room conveniently free whenever they needed it. When _he_ needed it. It had a room of requirement sort of vibe to it, and although Morrell had done her absolute best to squash all of his hopeful Harry Potter dreams, Stiles couldn’t help but wonder if there might be something to it. This was not the time to ponder it, however. Not when faced with a slew of skeptical faces. Scott was evidently not alone in his displeasure.

“I don’t want to,” said Stiles tersely. “I’d much rather spend my precious spare time on other activities, but at the same time I’d loathe to see a similar mess as the Dread Doctors descend upon us, and for us to belatedly realize we could’ve gotten on top of it if we just did a little research and a bit of a stake out.”

“I have work at Deaton’s to factor in,” mumbled Scott. “I can’t just ditch that because you want us to stare at a tree for hours.”

“I have a paper due this week,” added Liam. “Also, lacrosse practice.”

They all started piping up their chores, activities and appointments. Stiles shushed them all with mounting annoyance. He paused for moment to quell the worst of his frustrations using some of the breathing exercises Morrell had suggested. And not a moment too soon. A stack of chairs at the back of the classroom had been wobbling, dangerously close to crashing for the last few minutes. After a few deep breaths reminiscent of a Lamaze class, they stopped.

“Oh, pipe down all of you,” he said, doing little do mask his exasperation. Finally, their protests died down. Stiles grabbed his backpack (yes, he’d finally bought a new one and ditched Lydia’s Prada bag) and began rummaging through it.

“I’ve worked out a schedule I think you’ll find is accommodating to all of your activities and shit. It’s in here somewhere.”

He pulled out textbooks, stray papers, notebooks and - what the fuck? Stiles held up a book he hadn’t seen before.

“The Man Who Folded Himself,” Malia read with an arched eyebrow. “Wow, yeah that looks super helpful.”

“Very funny.”

Stiles turned the book over to read the blurb on the back. He had never laid eyes on it before and had no idea what it was doing in his backpack.

“Who put this here?” he asked, looking around the room. No one smirked, tittered or looked even vaguely guilty. Lydia snatched the book away, inspecting it much like you would an armed bomb. Or sweaty socks.

“The Man Who Folded Himself by David Gerrold. This is a classic, Stiles. It’s good,” she said approvingly. “Not my preferred genre, but probably one of the best novels about time-travel ever written. Though, I can’t for the life of me see why you’d want to dabble in that.” She arched an eyebrow.

“What? No! I don’t want to time-travel! Honestly, I should never time-travel, I’d just mess things up. Possibly create an apocalypse. Or worse, get Donald Trump elected as President or some shit.”

They all shuddered at the thought.

“Besides,” he continued, “it’s not my book and I have no clue why it’s in my bag. You keep it if you want.”

Lydia shrugged and put it in her tote bag.

“Good, you shouldn’t mess with time. Which is exactly what this book describes. Time paradoxes end up creating multiple universes. It’s quite fascinating,” she added, sounding surprisingly sincere. Stiles almost regretted giving it away. Almost.

“Oh, good here it is!”

He’d finally located the schedule, photocopied so they could all get one. He handed it out and they all fell into silence as they read it over, probably looking for faults. Liam was the first to speak.

“This, wow, this actually works for me. How did you know about my History test next week?”

“I never told you I work at a coffee shop every Tuesday afternoon,” added Mason, awed.

“Or that I have a doctor’s appointment next Friday,” said Hayden, considerably more suspicious than impressed.

Stiles smiled crookedly. “It’s what I do,” he said with an air of superiority. “I’m sarcastic, and I know shit. Chalk it up to my superior detective skills or whatnot.”

“I think it’s best not to ask,” advised Lydia. “The answer might scare us.”

Scott hadn’t said anything, and still sat staring at the schedule with a frown. Stiles prodded his shoulder lightly.

“Hey, does this work for you, man? I asked your mom about your work schedule, and I obviously know about lacrosse practices, so…”

He trailed off, doing a nervous little wave with his arms. After a long pause that definitely lasted too long not to be uncomfortable, Scott finally nodded.

“It works,” he said, though there was a frosty tinge to his voice. “So, we like report back to you after, is that so, oh great leader?”

Ah there it was. Stiles was surprised it had taken Scott this long to address the elephant in the room.

“It’s not like that and you know it,” he said honestly. Stiles had no desire to remain pack leader or whatnot. In fact, he couldn’t wait to relinquish the responsibility. “I never wanted this,” he added.

Scott snorted.

“It’s true! Ask the others. I wanted Derek to do it. For him to be interim leader while you -.”

“While I what?”

Scott’s eyes flashed red for moment. Stiles felt his heart clench and fear bloomed in the pit of his stomach. Not because he was scared Scott would hurt him, but rather because the red tint wasn’t nearly as bright as it usually was. It was murkier somehow. Like it had been mixed with another color. Something dark. Something smokey.

“It’s okay to not be okay all time time, Scott. It’s okay to accept help.”

“Is it also okay to not accept help when I don’t need it?”

It was impossible for the others not to notice the awkward conversation that was getting louder by the minute.

“Perhaps we should continue this talk later? At your house perhaps?” suggested Stiles through clenched teeth. He could see the stack of chairs wobbling again. “We promised to sit down and talk things through, remember. Really talk. It’s overdue, dude.”

“You don’t want to talk to me,” snarled Scott. “You just want to take over my pack, freeze me out. You’re just like Theo,” he spat.

The chairs crashed to the floor. Kira shrieked. Malia and Liam’s eyes flashed. Mason looked like he was caught between wanting to flee and stay and watch the carnage.

“Never compare me to Theo, ever again,” hissed Stiles. “I don’t want to get rid of you, Scott. I want to help you through this, however I can. We all do,” he added gesturing to the rest of them.

“Then why are you conspiring against me? Why do you keep on talking with Morrell when you know I don’t trust her. When you know as well as I do she’s bad news!”

Stiles had to bite his tongue and clench his fists. The feeling of blunt nails digging into his skin was a welcome distraction to help focus his magic so it wouldn’t go completely haywire. The fluorescent lights overhead were flickering erratically, which was bad enough.

“Stiles is right, Scott. We’re not conspiring against you.”

Lydia had taken a firm step forward, hands raised to signal that she meant no harm. “We felt it was best to unburden you of the responsibilities of the pack while you grieved for Allison. We’re not shutting you out. You’re still included, and it’s meant to be a temporary solution.”

Scott looked far from convinced, a hard set to his jaw. “That might be,” he snarled. “It still doesn’t excuse Morrell.”

Stiles let out a sound of suppressed anger.

“Oh for Christ's sake! Scott, do you ever stop to think about the stuff you say? You’re all in a huff now because I’m doing something you don’t agree with. I’m talking to someone you don’t trust. Newsflash buddy, that is the story of my life! You want me to stop talking to Morrell? Fine.”

He crossed his arms, staring defiantly at Scott.

“I’ll stop, no problem. But that requires that you do the same. I don’t trust Deaton. Never have. You want me to stop seeing her, then you do the same and stop seeing him.”

Scott scoffed, rolling his eyes. “That’s preposterous!”

Stiles shook his head. “No, it’s not. It’s the exact same thing you’re asking me to do. What makes my request so different from yours?”

Scott didn’t answer right away. No one said a word for the longest time. Stiles was quite frankly surprised no one had burst into the room to find out what all the ruckus was about. Again he wondered if his magic had anything to do with it. He’d ask Morrell about it. Providing he was able to see her again, that was.

“I’m waiting,” he said after a while. Scott still looked enraged, jaw jutted out and mouth pursed in a firm line.

“You’re being unreasonable,” he finally said sullenly. “We’ve known Deaton forever, he’s always helped us. Morrell - “

“I know, I know,” injected Stiles tiredly. “Deucalion, Eichen House, blah blah blah, I know the drill. Still, you’re wrong - we don’t know a thing about Deaton. He was Talia Hale’s emissary yet didn’t approach or even attempt to help any of her kids. He knew about the supernatural yet never gives a straight answer. We could debate this all day, Scott, and never agree. That is not the point, though. It’s not really about Morrell or Deaton.”

“What’s it about then?”

Stiles drew a deep breath, feeling bone tired all of a sudden.

“It’s about _us_ , Scott. Bottom line is, you don’t trust me. You don’t trust my judgment, my advice, my suggestions or my instincts.”

Scott crossed his arms across his chest defiantly. “You don’t trust mine either,” he countered.

“True,” said Stiles eliciting gasps from several around them. “I don’t. There’s a huge difference, though. Or at least there was.”

“What?”

Stiles smiled tiredly, feeling a sadness creep over him the likes of which could suffocate you, if you allowed it to.

“I didn’t always agree with you, but I still followed you blindly every time. Like a loyal dog.”

The silence that followed was so absolute Stiles was scared they’d all stopped breathing. He’d gone too far. He knew that. Getting into a childish shouting match with Scott over this in front of everyone was stupid. It was immature and not very leader-like. But Scott had managed to push all his buttons, and something had snapped. Stiles chanced a look at Scott. His face was unreadable. Fuck. He’d probably fucked up everything now. Made it worse than it was. Ruined the last shreds of their friendship forever.

The sound of paper crumbling brought him out of his miserable ruminations. He startled to see Scott had burst into action and was now stalking towards the door.

“Wait, Scott. We should probably talk about this. I don’t want to leave it like this. Please? Can we like go somewhere just the two of us, to talk it out?”

Scott didn’t turn around, but lifted his right arm, shaking the crumpled paper in the air.

“Sorry, can’t,” he said in a strained voice. “Apparently I’m on Nemeton watch this afternoon.”

The door slammed behind him. Stiles looked cautiously from one face to the other to judge their reactions. Hayden, Liam and Mason looked mostly confused. Kira looked like she was close to tears. Malia seemed preoccupied, her nose in the air. In the end, it was Lydia who broke the silence.

“Well,” she said matter-of-fact, “that wasn’t a total dismissal. At least he’s keeping to your schedule. It’s a start.”

Perhaps it was. Stiles still felt like he’d just been pushed down a chute in a game of very cruel chutes and ladders, and was back almost at the start in regards to his friendship with Scott. One more fall and he’d be completely off the board.

“Call Parrish, will you,” he said quietly, forcing himself to remain calm, despite the tornado wreaking havoc inside his chest. “Scott will need a guide to find it.”

 

 

 

 

 


	13. Chapter 13

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is from Malia's POV

The day started off normal enough. Malia woke at the crack of dawn, spent a few restless moments trying to get back to sleep, but soon gave up. She slipped soundlessly out of bed and climbed out the window. She didn’t want to disturb her dad, but needed fresh air. It was a blessing living right by the Preserve. In no time Malia was running, picking up speed until she was nothing but a blur.

She was back at the house and in the shower by the time her dad called for breakfast. They ate in companionable silence, him reading the sport section of the local paper, Malia skimming the cartoons. He dropped her off at school like always with a jaunty “have a nice day.” Malia smiled, grabbed her backpack and shuffled inside.

The rest of the day went on autopilot. Struggling through her math class, getting a much needed B on her history test, eating lunch with Kira and Lydia. She saw Stiles in passing, but didn’t stop to chat. Scott sat next to her in English, but seemed preoccupied. After a few failed attempts to engaging him in a discussion on the Theo situation, Malia gave up.

Speaking of Theo, he found her in the library during her free period. Without warning or permission, he plopped down opposite her with a wide grin. Malia growled under her breath. Theo laughed.

“Should you be this close to me?” she asked sweetly. “I heard something about threats of restraining orders.”

She cocked her head giving him a very fake smile, the one with way too much teeth.

“Threats yes,” admitted Theo smugly, “though I’m not exactly eager to follow through. I’d rather we all be friends.”

Malia stared him with incredulity. Friends? Yeah, that was so not happening.

“Keep dreaming,” she said dismissively, turning back to her book.

A few minutes passed, still Theo made no sign of leaving. When she chanced a quick look she saw he’d taken out a book and was pretending to read as well. Malia bristled. How dared he?

“Please find another table,” she muttered under her breath. Theo flipped a page and arched an eyebrow, but remained seated.

“Move, or I’ll make you,” she hissed. Theo lowered the book, smiling widely.

“Lay one finger, or claw on me, and those restraining orders you mentioned will be the least of your worries.”

Malia’s eyes flashed blue, but she managed to stamp down the urge to slash his face.

“Besides,” continued Theo, as if discussing recipes for lasagna, “All I want is to know why you and Scott’s disciples kept a badly hidden trail on me for the past week. I’ve done nothing to warrant such attention.”

Malia snorted. “I hear you’ve been harassing Hayden to come back to your pack. Liam was not pleased, I can tell you that.”

Theo shrugged. “There is no harm in asking. I’ve done little else but talk to the girl. That’s not it. Something else is going on, and I want to know. I might even agree to help if you ask nicely.”

“We don’t want your help.”

“No?” Theo tapped his finger casually on the desk, looking all kinds of smug. “I don’t think you’d been able to get rid of those pesky doctors without my assistance. I feel as if you lot owe me.”

“Really?" Malia dropped all pretenses about reading and simply glared. "Forgive me, but didn't you try to kill Scott at one point? Most people would think attempted murder trumped a tip-off to the doctors' batcave. Anyway, you really should take it up with Scott,” said Malia. “I wasn’t even here when that went down.”

Theo’s smile vanished. “I’ve tried, believe me, but your fearless leader is a little out of it at the moment, I’ve noticed. What’s up with that?”

“Again, none of your business.”

Malia was caught between anger and annoyance, barely managing to contain her urge to turn Theo's face into minced meat. He wasn’t to be trusted, that much was obvious, and yet he was also right. Scott was a bit out of it, but that didn’t mean she or anyone one else for that matter would be more accommodating when it came to his traitorous ass. Especially not if he was the one messing with the Nemeton, like Stiles suspected. Malia was positive the scent she'd followed out there had been coyote. However, sitting across from Theo, practically smack dab in the middle of his personal scent zone, something was becoming crystal clear.

Theo was definitely _not_ the one she’d smelled.

“I’m making it my business.”

Theo hadn’t given up. Malia shook out of her reverie and glared at him.

“So, what do you want exactly? A face to face? A chance to plead your case? To extend an olive branch? Newsflash: I doubt it'll do you any good. I'd give up if I were you.”

Theo smiled, crossing his arms. “Good thing I'm not like you, then isn't it. Yeah, a chance to state my case would be a good start. But not just with Scott. Scott is the alpha and all that, but I know the one to convince is Stiles. I want to talk to the both of them.”

Malia chewed on her pen, regarding Theo through narrow eyes. He wasn’t lying.

“I can’t make any promises,” she began slowly. “I can only suggest it. So don't come complaining to me if they turn you down. Which I suspect they will.”

“I think you'll be able to persuade them.” Theo was all smiles, leaning forward with a suggestive smirk. Malia felt her lunch shift uncomfortable in her stomach. To think that she'd at one point almost found him desirable. 

“No flirting,” she hissed out between pursed lips. Theo waggled his eyebrows.

"Afraid you can't resist my charms? I hear you're single again, so what's the harm?"

Malia simply glared wordlessly, gesturing towards Theo’s wrist. “Never happening. I'll ask Scott and Stiles to talk to you on one condition, and please don't get any ideas. I want to scent you.”

Theo looked taken aback. “Excuse me?”

“You’ll be excused as soon as I get a closer whiff of your pungent scent. Hand over your wrist!”

Malia held out her hand out impatiently. Theo hesitated, but eventually complied. She inhaled deeply, letting the scent linger, breaking it down. She’d been right. It definitely wasn’t Theo.

She gathered her things and left the library and a confused Theo in a hurry.

 

  
***

 

 

 

Hurrying turned out to be a very bad decision.

Not knowing what classes Stiles and Scott had, she’d spent the recess after her free period running down corridors trying to locate them. Following scents at a high school was not exactly easy.

It all ended very badly when she rounded a corner at high speed and crashed headfirst into the principal. He fell and lay sprawled on the floor, books and journals scattered in all directions. Although not physically hurt, his pride was clearly bruised. Surrounded by a horde of giggling students, he took out his embarrassment and frustration on Malia in the form of after school detention. All attempts to plea her case fell on deaf ears. Malia later learned someone had snapped a picture. It was turned it into a meme by the end of the school day. This lifted her mood marginally. 

By the time she was excused, even lacrosse practice was over. The school was abandoned and silent, the parking lot empty. Malia tried calling her dad, but got straight to voice mail. She considered calling some of the others to come get her, but decided against it. She needed to talk to Stiles. He was a safer bet than Scott these days. If she couldn’t get Scott to talk to her in class, how was she supposed to get him talk about this? Besides, Stiles was more directly linked to the issue at hand anyway.

She began walking, grateful for the fresh air after a longer than usual day trapped inside. It also provided her some time to think things through and revisit the conversation with Theo. Had she missed something? Could he be lying after all? In the end, she concluded that yes, Theo could be lying. He’d done that before, tricked them and twisted things around. His scent however, that he couldn’t mask. And if he could, his reaction when she smelled him would’ve been different. Defensive. Instead, he’d just been confused.

Halfway down Maple Street Malia suddenly stopped, sniffing the air. There it was again! The same mangled scent from the woods! She spun around, sniffing, trying to pinpoint the direction. Without a second thought she let her nose lead the way, blind to her surroundings, carried forward by instinct and scent alone.

As she walked on, her pace quickening the stronger the scent got, she couldn’t help but marvel at the coincident of it all. That the very thing she’d been thinking about just suddenly popped up in the air. It was too good to be true. She could practically hear Stiles rambling about traps. Still, she forged on.

Then, as suddenly as it had appeared, it was gone. One second it was strong and close, the next it was as if a switch had been flipped, turning it off completely. Malia halted in confusion, spinning around in all directions, searching for it.

How strange?

Stranger still, she was now outside Deaton’s clinic. Malia twirled on the spot doing another 360 turn. She hadn’t even realized she'd been heading in this direction. She hesitated for a split second, shrugged and then barged in.

“Hello!”

There was no one at the front desk, yet the door had been open and the lights were still on. She could hear a chorus of cats mewing in an adjacent room. Somewhere to her left a dog barked softly.

“Anyone here?”

She walked towards the examination room, pushed the door open without knocking. The pair at the back of the room startled violently.

“Malia?!”  
  
Braeden stared at her, face caught in an unattractive grimace of surprise and annoyance. It brought back unwanted memories from their unproductive roadtrip. Deaton’s reaction was far more curious. Malia was pretty certain she’d never seen him startle before, but her arrival had clearly taken him by surprise. It didn’t last long, though. He soon had his features schooled back into his standard folds of studious calm.

“What a lovely surprise,” he said with a smile. Malia got the impression the surprise had been anything but lovely, but let it slide. She stared from Deaton to Braeden and back. This odd couple again? Fishy. Very fishy.

“Lovely? Yeah, I’m sure,” she mumbled.

The door to the backroom swung open and Scott walked in, drying his hands on a towel. Malia scrunched up her nose in disgust. He'd brought with him a strong smell of blood. He did a double take when he noticed her, but it quickly morphed into a smile. 

“Hey, Malia. What'cha doing here? Anything wrong?”

Malia scrutinized him, cataloging everything from his hair to his feet. Nothing seemed out of the ordinary. She shook her head, adding a smile of her own.

“Hey. No, nothing’s wrong. I was in the neighborhood, saw the lights and just wanted to see if you were at work. We haven’t talked much since I got back.”

“Cool. I’m off in fifteen minutes, I could give you a ride home if you want? Gives us time to catch up a little.”

“I’d like that.” Malia gestured back towards the reception area. “I’ll just wait for you out there.” Scott nodded.

She turned, meeting Braeden’s stare. “Didn’t know you were still in town,” she commented in lieu of a hello. “New bestie?” she asked with a nod towards the veterinarian. Deaton had glided over to a cabinet and seemed to be doing inventory.

“Business,” said Braeden brusquely. “I’ve just delivered some more herbs and shit.” She pointed at a row of small containers on the table. Malia didn’t sense any lie or glitches in Braeden’s heartbeat, but still felt uneasy.

“Whatever,” she muttered and turned towards the door.

That was when she noticed it.

A crate.

Correction: The Crate. The exact same crate Deaton had brought back with him, to be precise. The one that had burned Malia’s hand to a crisp. It sat on the floor by the cabinet Deaton was rummaging through. Malia frowned. There were also marks on the linoleum floor. As if it had been hastily shoved out of the way, instead of lifting it.

Just as in the car, Malia felt a strange pull towards it. Like a magnet. Remembering her last encounter she made a point to keep her distance. It was surprisingly hard. Each step was like wading through syrup, fighting her instincts to touch it.

Finally safely out in the reception area, the last thing Malia glimpsed before the door swung shut behind her, was Deaton and Braeden huddled together, staring meaningfully at each other. No words were spoken, and yet she got the distinct feeling she’d walked in on something seedy. An echo of Stiles’ voice rang through her mind, reminding her of his suspicions of Deaton. Personally, Malia didn’t trust Braeden even one iota. Together they could make a toxic combination. For once in her life she dearly hoped both Stiles and she were wrong.

When she stepped into the dark afternoon a while later, Scott by her side, Malia paused again. Listened. Scented the air, yet noticed nothing out of the ordinary.

“What'cha doing?”

Clearly, Scott hadn’t picked up on anything. Malia still felt a prickling sensation on her back, as if someone was watching them. She spun again, scanning the nearby buildings, half expecting to find some beast hiding in the shadows. Or worse yet, her mother. Yet, it didn’t feel malevolent. Not really. More like,  _familiar_.

“Nothing,” she said with a shrug. “Just thought I smelled a rabbit or something. I’m hungry.”

“May I suggest pizza?” Scott looked a bit queasy. “I’m not big on the hunting for food thing.”

“Make it burgers, and you're on.”

“Deal.”

As they sped away on Scott’s bike, Malia thought she caught a movement out of the corner of her eye. When she looked closer she saw nothing but woods. The feeling of being watched however stayed with her.

 

***

 

“Not Theo?”

Stiles stared dubiously at Malia. “Are you sure? Absolutely one hundred percent certain?”

She nodded, chewing her lower lip almost to the point of drawing blood. It was either that or gag slightly on the pungent stink of cum and Derek lingering in the room. It was faint, yet distinctly undeniable. In fact, the room didn’t really smell of Stiles anymore. Instead, it smelled of _them_.

“Come on! Seriously?” Stiles whined. “But Malia, he’s the perfect candidate!”

He was pacing, doing a complicated routine of flailing arms that miraculously didn’t knock anything over. She suspected it was due to muscle memory, or perhaps humans had instinctive reflexes too. Just like she never bumped into anything when she ran in the woods.

“It was way too obvious,” she countered, shrugging. “It’s never that obvious. You taught me that. If it seems to easy and too good to be true, it probably is.”

Stiles grimaced and threw her a withering glare. “I hate it when people use my perfectly logical reasoning against me.”

“You just want it to be Theo so you can lock him up somewhere. He rubbed you the wrong way from the get go. You just wanna be right.”

“I was right! He couldn’t be trusted. Don't forget he almost killed Scott!”

Stiles’ voice went up an octave. Malia rolled her eyes. Stiles ignored it and continued ranting. “He was a lying sack of shit and no one believed me when I tried to warn you guys! I might be right again!”

“We admitted you were right, Stiles.”

He was trying her patience. Nothing new in other words. It was familiar. It felt safe. It also hurt, because she’d confused it with love. Mutual love. In reality, it was mutual friendship. She still loved him, though. Some days it was nothing more than a dull ache, other days it burned hot and pulsating. Today it felt like a raw sunburn.

“But Stiles, just because Theo was complicit in the previous villainous plot, that doesn’t mean he’s involved in this new one. In fact, I’d say that would make him stupid.”

“I agree,” Stiles crossed his arms. “It would make him the moron of the year. Or, not. He might be stupid enough to try it. Or conniving enough. He knows it’s too obvious, so he’s banking on us not suspecting him. Like he’s hiding in plain sight or whatnot.”

“Well, at the very least we now know he wasn’t the one messing with the Nemeton. I sat next to him earlier today. I scented his wrist. It wasn’t the same. I’m sure of it.”

She steeled herself for the next revelation, knowing it would send him into a tailspin. Stiles harbored little love for Deaton and telling him that she picked up a faint whiff of the scent from the Nemeton outside his clinic would fuel his suspicions.

Stiles wasn’t quite done with the coyote theories yet, though.

“Well, if it isn’t Theo,” he held up a stern finger, stopping Malia before she could say anything, “then we have to broaden our suspect pool a bit.”

“How?” Malia let out a frustrated sound. “Last time I checked all the coyote elements we know in town are Theo and me. Do you think I did it, is that it? That someone mind-whammied me?”

Stiles pulled a face, effectively conveying how ridiculous he found that theory.

“No, silly. Of course I don’t think it’s you.”

He paused. Opened his mouth as if to speak, then paused again. Malia noticed he was doing a silly sort of dance with his fingers, something she recognized as his I-want-to-suggest-something-you-won’t-like tic.

“Oh, come on! Just spit it out already!” she finally snapped, her eyes flashing blue for emphasis. Stiles stopped his pacing by the murderboard.

“You said we don’t know any other coyotes in town, right?”

Malia nodded, not sure where Stiles was going with this.

“But,” he began tentatively, “we know of another coyote.” He paused, then continued softly. “We just don’t know her location at the moment. But she’s been in town before, that we do know.”

“What are you getting at?”

Stiles gestured towards the murder board. Malia followed the direction of his pointing finger to a question she still remembered him putting up there months ago.

_Who is the Desert Wolf?_

Malia growled low in her throat. “You think it could be my mom?” she spat. Stiles sank down on his bed, rubbing his face, then shrugged.

“I honestly don’t know. All I know is that we have someone with ill intentions that smells of coyote messing with the Nemeton. I only know of three werecoyotes, you, Theo and your mom. The fourth option is an entirely new player, which is very possible, but leaves us at a severe disadvantage. I wanted it to be Theo, because Theo I know. Theo I can handle. If it’s your mom, it’s a whole other ballgame, one which I don’t even know the rules of. We found you in the woods, not to far from where the Nemeton usually is. Your mom killed you and your foster family by the Preserve, not far from it as well. It might be a coincident or it might all be connected. I guess we need to look into it.”

Stiles was right. It could be her mom. Was that perhaps why she felt so drawn to it? She let out a frustrated bark of laughter, flopping down on the bed with a groan.

“What?” Stiles peered down on her with concern.

“If this theory is right, and the Desert Wolf is now back in town, I could’ve saved myself the trip with Braeden.

“Ironic,” said Stiles. “Don’t you think?”

“I think I want to punch something, is what I think.”

“I think you should leave, then,” said Stiles helpfully, pulling Malia up from the bed and steering her towards the window. “Last time you got frustrated you punched my printer. It did not fare well.”

It wasn’t until Malia had run several miles at a furious pace and perhaps (definitely) knocked over several trees that she realized she never got around to tell Stiles about the scent, Deaton and Braeden. She’d definitely do it tomorrow. Definitely.

 


	14. Chapter 14

Stiles was busy stuffing his face with limp fries and doing his level best to tune out Lydia’s rant about the dangers of saturated fats, when someone dumped down beside him at their usual lunch table. Predictably, he startled and dropped a ketchup-drenched fry. Miraculously, it hit the floor without staining any of his clothes.

“Hey.”

Stiles had been half hoping Scott would turn up. This was most definitely not Scott. Turning his head slightly, mouth still unattractively filled with fries and resembling  a chipmunk, Stiles promptly stared into an abyss. Also know as Danny’s dimple. God, that thing was like a cute bottomless pit.

“Hey,” he returned automatically, spraying fries in the process. This time a few landed on his thigh. Wonderful. Across the table Lydia made disapproving noises. She wordlessly handed him a napkin before turning her megawatt charm smile on Danny.

“Hey Danny! I didn’t know you were back. Where did you disappear to?”

Danny smiled tentatively, looking nervously to Stiles. “Didn’t Stiles tell you?” he asked. Lydia turned her head, bestowing Stiles with her Death Star murder beam.

“No, he most certainly did not. Care to fill me in?”

Her tone was sweet, but Stiles was not fooled. He quickly swallowed his food, completely without any trace of finesse. He suspected there was still ketchup on his face. Not that it mattered. Not when Lydia was Pissed. And yes, that was Pissed with a capital P.

“Danny knows, Danny moved away to get away from our shit, Danny missed his family, and now Danny’s back. Tada! Summary complete. Care for a fry?”

Lydia blinked owlishly a few times, cocked her head and looked from one boy to the other, a calculating look on her face. They both held their breaths in surprising sync. Lydia had that effect on people. Stiles suspected she’d be a world class general. Or supreme ruler.

“Danny knows about what exactly?” she asked slowly, voice sweet but venomous.

“About the things that go bump in the night.” Stiles smiled broadly, miming a little drum roll for effect. “Our furry friends. His furry ex-boyfriend. Jackson’s reptilian wiles. Those sort of things.”

Lydia’s eyes widened slightly, but just like Deaton she was a master at masking her feelings.

“Really?” she asked, using her fork to pierce a tomato with laser precision.

“Really,” confirmed Danny slowly, eyeing the mangled tomato warily. “Like I told Stiles, I know but I don’t want to be involved. I knew what Ethan was, but still dated him, going against my own and my families principles. When shit hit the fan and Ethan left town, I decided to do the same. I’ve taken a break, traveling around Europe mostly. With my cousin,” he added hesitantly when Lydia didn’t respond, simply glared.

“And you came back because you missed your family?” asked Lydia shrewdly. She was brewing on something, Stiles could see that clear as day. Still, he wasn’t entirely sure what she was getting at. He didn’t dare ask.

“Yeah, I did. I figured there wasn’t all that much left of our senior year. Not much time for too much shit to go down. So far it’s been good. Quiet. Right?”

“Right, yeah absolutely.” Stiles nodded. “Nothing to report. No threats, no shit, no nothing. No sir.”

Stiles was rambling. Lydia sighed, then patted his hand, probably to calm him down. It didn’t do much good, but he appreciated the sentiment. The trash can behind Lydia shook and then fell over, scattering leftover food and rubbish in all directions. Lydia kicked his shin under the table. Yeah, his emotions were getting the better of him again. Crap!

Danny stared from the mess on the floor and back to his classmates, looking thoroughly bewildered. Lydia clapped her hands together, putting on her most dazzling smile.

“So good to have you back, Danny. The Lacrosse team really needs you. Desperately. One Greenberg was bad enough. Two of them on the same field. Disaster.”

“Not sure I’ll be joining again,” said Danny. Lydia snorted.

“Nonsense. Of course you are. We don’t want a repeat of last year’s disaster. That game against Devenport Prep was a disgrace. I was half tempted to call Jackson and beg him to come back. Or I would if he would return any of my calls or texts.”

She pierced Danny with one of her probing stares that instantly made you want to confess your darkest secrets.

“Are you in contact with him these days?”

“Jackson?” Danny’s eyes bulged a bit. Lydia nodded slowly, one eyebrow raised.

“Yes, Jackson. Not that I care if you are. Not much anyway. Give him my regards if you talk to him. And by regards I mean a swift slap across the cheek, open palm for maximum sting.”

Danny looked like he deeply regretted coming over. Stiles patted his arm awkwardly. Danny grinned nervously and cleared his throat.

“Anyway, I just wanted to say it’s good to see you. I heard you went to Eichen House,” he added almost at a whisper. Lydia arched an eyebrow.

“Did you now?”

Her death glare was back on Stiles who gestured wildly while shaking his head.

“Nope, don’t blame this on me. I didn’t say anything. Not that it matters, Danny won’t go spreading rumors anyway. Right?”

Danny shook his head furiously.

“Of course not. Wouldn’t dream of it. In fact…” he trailed off, looking uncertain and almost scared again. Stiles remembered the same look on his face last time this topic was brought up. Odd.

“I was kind of wondering… Stiles didn’t really confirm anything when I asked about it earlier, but I assume Eichen or at least parts of Eichen is related to this towns supernatural population.”

“Where did you hear that?” Lydia was getting into her lawyer mode.

“My gran, actually.” Danny shrugged sheepishly. “She gets extra chatty when she has a few too many glasses of port wine. Stiles mentioned he’d been there, but I guess that was the human part of the facilities. I might be overstepping here, and please feel free to tell me to mind my own business, but I have this weird feeling there’s more to you than meets the eye.”

Lydia regarded him for a few seconds. Stiles took the opportunity to discretely remove her fork. Just in case.

“What makes you say that?” asked Lydia. Danny shrugged.

“The black light party at Halloween, actually. There were some odd shit going on that night. I saw those ninja types and they came for the supernaturals. Isaac, Ethan, Aiden… and you.”

“Touche. Your observational skills are good. I might be a touch extraordinary.” Lydia smiled self-satisfactory. “And yes, I was tucked away at their special ward for a spell. What of it?”

Danny hesitated.

“I was just wondering if you’d like seen someone there?”

“Like who?”

“Like… like - eh, Ethan for instance. Or something. Anyone, really. That we, you know, know.” Danny swallowed hard. Stiles and Lydia exchanged looks. That was unexpected.

“Why, is Ethan missing?”

Danny shrugged. “Missing, hiding, avoiding me. I dunno. When my gran mentioned Eichen I just sort of wondered, worst case scenario, if that could be the reason why he’s totally incommunicado.”

Lydia chewed on her lower lip, then shook her head. “Sorry, Danny. I didn’t see him there. I didn’t see anyone I know down there. Then again,” she added with a hair flip, “I was mostly catatonic the entire time, so what do I know.”

She spun around, facing Stiles. “You ran around down there looking for me, did you see him?”

Danny did a double take but didn’t comment. Stiles’ ears turned red.

“Me? No! I thought I saw Donovan, but that was only the Slugah. You don’t wanna know,” he added when Danny looked like he was about to ask. “I didn’t stop to look at all the freaky stuff behind the bars and doors, alright. A scaly arm here, a furry face there. It’s all a blur. Sorry,” he added to Danny, who still looked like someone had slapped him across the face with a bag of beans.

“I thought you were in the human ward. Didn’t you say that?”

Stiles shrugged. “I was, but that was months ago.”

“Then why were you in the supernatural ward looking for Lydia? How did you get in there in the first place? Do they allow visitors?” He sounded suddenly hopeful. Stiles snorted.

“Not likely. Not after Kira short short-circuited the place and allowed for half the ward to escape.”

“Half the ward?” Danny’s voice broke like a pimpled teenager.

“Aw, don’t worry, the bad guys are still locked up. Mostly. I’d rest easier with Peter behind bars again, though. Or trapped in a tomb. I’m not picky.”

“Didn’t do much good the last time,” commented Lydia dryly.

“Last time?” Danny was edging up on a high pitched tenor.

“You really don’t wanna know,” said Lydia and Stiles in perfect unison. They grinned at each other and fist bumped. Danny looked stupefied.

“So how exactly did you get in there?”

“Magic, Danny. Magic. I’m a wizard.”

Danny left their lunch table soon thereafter, muttering to himself. Stiles was pretty sure he hadn’t believed the bit about the magic, though, which was why he’d said it in the first place. Hide the truth in something people were bound to believe a lie. Pretty genius if he had to rate it himself. Lydia didn’t look as impressed as he’d hoped.

“Why the sour face, Lyds? Did someone steal your kale salad?” he asked, poking tentatively at one of the limp leaves. He was kind of amazed it qualified as food. Lydia smacked his fingers with a spoon. Damn, she was a menace with cutlery of all kinds!

“I do wonder,” she began slowly, nipping at her soy latte. “Isn’t it curious how Danny just happened to come back now and that he’s all of a sudden keen on learning more about all this stuff. And Eichen! He was on a fishing expedition if I ever saw one, and it certainly wasn’t about Ethan.”

“How do you know?”

Stiles hadn’t considered this angle, but now his cog wheels were turning.

“We’re Facebook friends. Ethan’s profile isn’t even private. A trained monkey could track him down.”

“Could be a coincident,” said Stiles, though doubts were already taking root. Growing. Lydia harrumphed in open disbelief.

“When has anything around here ever been a coincident?”

The answer was never. Stiles swore softly. Fuck it. He liked Danny and wasn’t entirely ready to swap him for Theo on his main suspect list. Still, Lydia was right. Something was off. Now all he had to do was find out what.

 

 

***

 

“You’re very quiet today, Stiles.”

Marin Morrell was, as always, calm and serenity incarnated. Stiles startled somewhat. He’d been lost in thoughts.

“You’re hardly a big talker yourself,” he responded, mostly to give himself time to clear his head. Morrell shrugged lightly, perhaps in a nod to say touche. Or perhaps not. It was hard to tell with her.

“Is there something on your mind?”

Stiles snorted. “Oh, there’s plenty on my mind. Always. Ranging from the absurd to the downright naughty. Not sure I want to divulge. No offense.”

“None taken. I’m not your psychiatrist, Stiles. I don’t expect you to open up to me in all regards. Still, I repeat my advice to you. Opening up, sharing your burdens and worries will prove beneficial both with regards to your inner balance and guiding the spark.”

Stiles laughed softly. “You remembered,” he commented. “To refer to it as “guiding” and not “controlling”, I mean. Not sure it will make much of a difference, but I like it better at any rate. Doesn’t make it sound as if I have an inner demon we need to domesticate and house train.”

Morrell didn’t push the topic, although Stiles was pretty sure she realized what his underlying fear was. What most of his nightmares and self-doubt all stemmed from. The fly possession. That experience had left Stiles with no control and a lot of guilt. Sometimes, especially when the outcome was less than desirable, like locking his dad in or breaking stuff, Stiles couldn’t help but recent this ability. To compare it. To compare them. The fly had been inside him. A dark force that gave him powers he had no control over. His spark sometimes felt similar. Like an out of control power inside him, a sort of unknown energy source that could be used for good or bad, and that he sadly didn’t know how to access or guide in the appropriate manners. Was it really all that different? Could he be trusted with it? Should he? Was he good enough to wield such a power? Was he even worthy?

Most days Stiles felt the answer to these questions was a resounding no. Still, he kept his doubts and fears locked away.

When he looked up, tired of staring at his nervous fingers playing with a burgeoning hole in his jeans, Stiles was startled to catch Morrell’s almost piercing stare. It felt as if she saw right through him. Like an emotional X-ray laying everything bare. His breath hitch, his heartbeat sped up. God, it was hot in here!

“It’s not bad,” she finally said, voice soft. “Your spark. It’s not a dark force that you need to conquer and quell. You realize that, right?”

Stiles nodded eagerly, smiling lopsidedly. “Yeah, sure. Course I do.”

Even he could hear the lie in his voice. Morrell’s face morphed into what could only be described as resigned fondness. The unexpected show of emotion took him aback.

“I know the Dread Doctors did something to you,” she said softly. The words pierced Stiles’ chest. Paralyzed him. “I suspect you’re blaming them for this development. That you suspect your gift is tainted. Unnatural. Much like the chimeras. Am I wrong?”

Stiles pursed his lips, shaking his head slightly. God, it was so fucking hot in here! Morrell took a deep breath, a soft smile on her lips.

“I don’t know how much you know about sparks and magic, Stiles, but I suspect it’s not a lot. JK Rowling got a lot wrong, but one thing is pretty accurate. Having magic isn’t something that can be taught or created. It’s something that just is. You’re either born with it, or not. Physiologically there’s nothing about you that would suggest you have this ability. You just do. You’re just as human as Lydia, but with an added gift. The Dread Doctors can’t create banshees, and they cannot create sparks. They dabble in supernatural DNA and genetics, but although the magical ability often run in families, it’s not something that you can test for in the traditional sense. Do you understand what I’m saying?”

Stiles was trying to process it all, but his mind kept rejecting it. If the Dread Doctors couldn’t implant and force this on him, then what were they giving him creepy injections for? When he asked, Morrell didn’t have a straight answer.

“My guess,” she said frankly, “is that they sensed your potential and gave you a boost in hopes to kick start it. Didn’t you once tell me that Peter claimed he sparked Lydia’s banshee powers through his bite?” Stiles nodded. “Then think of what the Dread Doctors did to you as sort of the same.”

She smiled, leaned forward and touched his arm gently. “You’re not possessed by something evil, Stiles. You’re gifted with something extraordinary. That gift isn’t evil unless you use it for evil. It’s all about choice and has nothing to do with possession.”

“I still don’t know how to use it, though,” he muttered.

“That is what practice is for.”

Morrell gestured towards the jar once again sitting front and center on her desk. “Have you made any progress?”

Stiles barked out a frustrated laugh. “Yeah, no. Not so much. Or to clarify - not at all. Not for lack of trying though,” he added. He’d spent more hours than he’d like to think about trying and failing to set the liquid on fire. Being grounded had freed up extra time, but sadly the result was abysmal.

“That’s okay. I’d like to see for myself if that’s alright.”

She gestured to the jar again. Stiles shrugged.

“Brace yourself for epic failure,” he muttered under his breath as he leaned forward, placing his elbows on the desk and resting his chin on his hands.

A deep breath. Exhale. Repeat.

Stiles tried to block out the sound of the fan on Morrell’s desk, the faint sound of students chatting outside in the hallways. He pushed all thoughts of homework, lacrosse and whoever was messing with the Nemeton to the back of his mind.

_Belief._

He needed to believe the liquid could catch fire however absurd the notion might be to him, logically. Stiles tried to do as Morrell had instructed, to grab hold of the things that grounded him. Derek. It needed to be Derek. The Nemeton was temporarily out, given what was going on there. That would only distract him more than he already was.

Inhale. Exhale. Envision the flame.

Stiles tried to bring forth a mental image, but it was hard to make it seem real. He closed his eyes, concentrating on his breathing. He envisioned a lighter - Derek was holding it - Stiles asked him to light it, to help him get the liquid burning. On the count of three, he thought to himself, bracing himself for another letdown.

3 - 2 - 1

Morrell gasped.

Stiles opened his eyes and was shocked to see little flickers of bluish light bouncing around on the liquid’s surface, almost like sparklers. He watched in stunned disbelief for a few seconds. Gradually they died down, one by one, until all that was left was a distinct woodsy smell.

“Wow,” he said slowly, still not completely sure what had happened. Morrell looked like a proud aunt, beaming at him from the other side of the desk.

“Wow indeed,” she said warmly. “That’s more than I expected from today’s lesson to be honest. You seem to be getting a better handle on your emotions. I’m glad. Not just because of what it means for your ability to use magic safely, but also since it’s a sign that your emotional wellbeing is improving as well. What changed?”

Stiles didn’t answer right away. Partly still stunned over the unexpected development, but also because he didn’t readily know the answer to her question. In the end it was obvious.

“I,” he said confidently. “I changed.”

 

  
***

 

 

The next week went by without any major incidents. Stiles didn’t wake in a pool of sweat in the middle of the night, and no more attacks took place on the Nemeton. The pack kept up with Stiles’ suggested schedule to watch it twenty-four-seven. Even Parrish pitched in when Mason ran into trouble with his parents for staying out past curfew, and was grounded. The deputy was sweet and awesome as always, but seemed to almost shrink whenever Lydia was mentioned or they ran into each other. Stiles did his best to make sure that happened as rarely as possible. Personally, he thought Lydia was being an idiot, but whenever he tried to broach the subject again, she shut it down with such finality he wisely let it drop.

Derek agreed to keep a closer look on Danny, mostly to appease Lydia’s suspicions, and hopefully prove that Stiles’ faith in him wasn’t misplaced. That again meant Derek had to cut back on his surveillance of Theo and Scott, which was less than ideal. Still, Stiles felt it was the right priority. Especially Theo looked less and less like he had anything to do with things, much to his chagrin. Stiles had a hard time admitting to this, but after another few days of fruitless tailing, they stopped following him completely. 

"You can't be right all the time," said Lydia primly. She seemed to take great pleasure in watching him erase everything Theo-related from his murderboard. 

"You're one to talk," he muttered darkly. "When have you ever admitted to a mistake of any kind?"

"I did once combine a plaid skirt with a glossy mauve tights. That was a mistake," she said pensively.

Stiles threw a pen at her. She avoided it deftly. Stiles cursed. He cursed even more an hour later when he needed said pen, and it was nowhere to be found. He finally located it under his bed, half hidden behind another book of unknown origin. He tossed it in the pile by the door his dad referred to as his "Watto pile". Stiles was partly proud his dad knew his Star Wars well enough to name drop a minor character, yet offended to be likened to a junk dealer.

 

To Kira’s obvious dismay, she and Scott spent less and less time together. Stiles was pleased to see both Lydia and Malia step up to embrace and include her in all their activities in an effort to take her mind of it. She still looked sad and drawn, like she wasn’t getting enough sleep, and her eyes were red-rimmed and glassy. Stiles wanted to do something for her, but with his own relationship with Scott at an all time low, he was essentially paralyzed and useless. He hated it.

Thankfully, Scott still talked to Liam. He’d therefore quickly become their most reliable source for information, since Scott was doing his best to avoid them these days. Mostly they talked about lacrosse or simply worked out together. According to Liam Scott wasn’t particularly talkative, and still zoned out at times.

Melissa confirmed this observation. Stiles came home from school one day to find her curled up on the couch, his dad giving her awkward pats on the back as she cried silently into a dirty kitchen towel.

“He barely talks to me,” she pressed out between hiccups. “He’s sullen most of the time. I hardly recognize him. I don’t think he sleeps much. Sometimes I think I hear him climb out the window in the middle of the night.”

She’d turned to Stiles, eyes pleading. “Can’t you talk to him, Stiles? You always managed to talk him into all kinds of things. He listens to you.”

Her words cut him with a sharpness unparalleled to even Kira’s katana. How could he explain that their dynamic had changed that night Scott was bitten? That they'd been on a slow collision course for months; one that finally exploded like a supernova and they were no just circling around each other, stuck in different Solar Systems. Now their differences seemed like a black hole, their stands light years apart. 

The answer was he couldn’t. He couldn’t hurt her like that. Couldn't take away her hope. So he promised to try. The hug she gave him burned his skin.

 

  
***

 

  
“I don’t think you should be out here.”

Derek sounded worried. Stiles cooed at him.

“Awwww, softy-wolf. You’re all concerned for your bae. I’m touched, flattered and let’s be honest a little turned on right now. Wanna stop and make out? You can totally feel me up underneath that tree. I’m all for a little groping in the grass.” He waggled his eyebrows suggestively.

“You’re incorrigible.” Derek tried to say it with that deadpan serial-killer-in-training look he used to sport way back when, but the curl of his lips gave him away.

“I am,” agreed Stiles. “And you like it. I wasn’t kidding about being turned on, though. Just FYI.”

“I know,” replied Derek dryly. “I have a very well-functioning nose.”

“I have a well-functioning dick. Wanna play with it? Perhaps get even more acquainted with my manly musk?”

Derek burst out laughing. Even snorted, just a little bit. Stiles pouted.

“I wasn’t trying to be funny.”

Derek fought to keep his face neutral. He was failing miserably.

“I know,” he said mirthfully. “Which is why it’s so utterly hilarious. There is never a dull moment with you. Please, never change.”

Stiles felt his cheeks heat. Derek sounded both fond and sincere. It still baffled him that this was happening. Derek and him. Them.

Having successfully derailed Stiles, Derek used the opportunity to get back on topic. “I still think it’s unwise for you to go see the Nemeton, Stiles. What if you’re burned again?”

Stiles shook his head. “I won’t.”

“How can you be so sure?”

Derek sounded honestly perplexed. Stiles knew it was hard, impossible even, for anyone to understand the connection he had to it. He’d tried to explain it many times, both to Derek and his dad, but it was like explaining quantum physics to a fifth grader. Breaking it down to the simplest basic and they could grasp the concept. The deeper understanding and intricacy still escaped them.

How could he explain that the tree operated as an extension of himself? If it was hurt, he was hurt. Stiles had never tested it, but he suspected the other way around applied as well. If he was hurt, it would in turn affect the Nemeton. He was just very grateful that whoever was chipping away at their defenses wasn’t aware of this. Truthfully, he was a much easier target all around. He’d never divulged this to either his dad or Derek, though. They’d lock him up tighter than Rapunzel if they knew, and he’d never see the light of day again. In dark moments, Stiles wondered what would happen if he died. Would the key to the Nemeton die with him, or would it leave it unprotected? He didn’t know who to ask or where to turn for answers, so Stiles did what Stiles did best. He ignored it.

“I just do. I would sense it if there was any danger to it right now. I’ve been coming out here every day the past week. My presence helps rebuild the defenses, I think.”

“Well,” grumbled Derek, grabbing hold of Stiles’ hand and lacing their fingers. “I don’t like it.”

“You don’t have to like it. You just need to have my back, alright?”

Derek squeezed his hand, meeting his eyes. The sincerity in them almost blew Stiles away.

“Always,” he simply said. Stiles fell further into the bottomless pit of love.

They walked on for a few minutes without speaking. Stiles honed in on the buzzing current of the Nemeton, guiding him towards it. Like always it kept on moving its location. It was smart in regards to unwanted visitors, but a logistical nightmare for the stakeout. Thankfully they’d worked out a system where the one coming to take over watch tracked the GPS in the current watcher’s phone. It seems to work most of the time, save that one time Liam got horribly lost when he accidentally picked up the GPS signal of a hiker and not Mason.

“Ouch! What the -!”

Stiles was brought to an abrupt stop when Derek suddenly paused without warning. He crashed into him, flattening his nose to Derek’s rock hard back muscles. Massaging his nose, Stiles stepped around to see what had caused him to stop. All he could see was woods, woods and more woods. Derek stood perfectly still, except for his nose that kept sniffing the air and scrunching up like a cute little rabbit.

“Caught the whiff of your dinner, wolfman?” teased Stiles, bumping his hip into Derek’s. “Are you going to go all caveman on me and hunt? Provide and shit?”

Derek didn’t answer, simply continued to scent the air. He started pivoting on the spot, as if trying to pinpoint the direction it was coming from.

“Derek?” Stiles was getting worried. Derek had his stony “this is serious” face on. Had he been wrong? Was danger lurking out here after all?

“Come on, dude.” Stiles tugged at his sleeve. “You’re kinda scaring me now. Is there someone out there? Should I get out my mountain ash? Call my dad? Should you howl for help?”

Derek did another full circle, then his shoulders slumped and he relaxed again. “Sorry,” he muttered. “Thought I picked up on something, but it was a false alarm.”

“You sure?”

Derek nodded. “Yeah, probably just imagined it anyway. Being out here again.” He shrugged. “This was Hale land you know.”

“I know,” said Stiles with a smirk. “This is private property. It was the first thing you ever growled at me. I have fond memories of that. It was my first scared-yet-aroused boner.”

“I know,” replied Derek, grin almost feral. Stiles whimpered.

“Sure we can’t just grope around for like a minute? I think my scared-yet-aroused-boner is back.”

Derek didn’t comment, just walked on still looking pensive.

“What did you think you smelled by the way?” asked Stiles when he realized hanky panky wasn’t in the cards at the moment. Derek didn’t answer right away. Like he was embarrassed, or maybe even scared to voice it out loud.

“For a moment I thought I recognized a familiar scent, but it’s probably just my imagination.”

“I think it’s perfectly natural,” said Stiles softly. “I still do the same thing you know. Sometime I will enter a room, my dad’s bedroom most of all, and I can swear my mom’s perfume is still in the air. I used to think my dad sprayed it around to remember her, but I asked once and he said he’d packed away and donated all of her clothes, perfumes and such. So it’s all in my head.” He snorted, the sound coming off as somewhat self-deprecating. “Kinda glad to know it’s not just me. I’m weird enough as it is, you know.”

“Stiles,” said Derek warningly. Stiles threw his hands up, bringing Derek’s with him since they were still linked together.

“I know, I know. I’m working on it. It’s just hard to let go of the dark thoughts.”

Derek squeezed his hand again. “I know,” he replied.

“So, who was it?”

“Who was what?”

Stiles rolled his eyes fondly. “The ghost scent, silly. Your parents? Laura?”

Derek shook his head, face stony. “Familiar, not family,” he said, a hard set to his mouth.

“Oh.”

Stiles suddenly felt a bit silly for his rant about his mom. He’d just assumed since they were on Hale property. Instinct told him to let it rest. Curiosity told him to pry. Curiosity won. It usually did.

“Who then, if not family?”

The answer chilled him to the bone.

“Jennifer Blake.”

  
***

 

  
As it turned out, the Nemeton was fine. Or not as fine as it used to be, but it still felt relatively strong to Stiles. There was some residual “wrongness” to it, kind of like a bruise or a scrape, but that would heal with time. Providing whoever was trying to weaken it didn’t get the chance to continue their assault. So far their stakeouts seemed to work in that regards.

Derek and Stiles found Liam on guard duty, which was in accordance with the schedule. He wasn’t alone though. They walked in on some heavy kissing and some wandering arms Stiles later tried his best to purge from his mind. Hayden had been flustered and embarrassed, especially since she didn’t really know Derek at all. It probably wasn’t the introduction she’d been expecting.

They hadn’t picked up on anything while they were out there. Stiles tersely pointed out that they hadn’t even noticed them arriving, which spoke volumes about how distracted they’d been. Liam mumbled something under his breath, but could little do but apologize. Hayden hurried to say that she needed to get back to her sister for dinner anyway, and left in a flash, her blouse unbuttoned crookedly and twigs in her hair.

“It’s just so incredibly boring sitting out here alone,” said Liam defensively. “I don’t do too well on my own. I’ll either fall asleep or become so restless I’ll give away my presence to whoever is lurking out here.”

Stiles could sympathize. He’d probably go stir-crazy too, out here on his own.

“Mason is set to take over in a couple of hours. If I call him to come a bit early, you can stay together. Will that be better?”

Liam nodded enthusiastically. “Yes! Heaps!”

“You’ll need to be quiet, though. Can you manage?”

Liam nodded so enthusiastically Stiles was scared his head might come off and roll down the hill.

“Think you can keep your hands off him?” he teased. Liam rolled his eyes in a manner that suggested Stiles was being the world’s biggest doofus.

“I think Corey might try to kill me if I try anything. He’s not a bad dude, by the way,” he continued, giving Stiles a serious look. “I know he’s a chimera and all, but he’s not hanging around Theo. He’d also be aces at this stakeout thing. He can turn invisible you know? Blend into the surrounding and shit.”

“I’ll think about it,” said Stiles.

He couldn’t help it. Residual skepticism still haunted him where the chimeras were concerned, Hayden included. Even if she’d never given him any reason to doubt her. He needed to work on that.

 

*

 

On their way back, they encountered a surprising character loitering not far from where Derek had parked his sensible mom Toyota.

“Braeden,” Stiles said icily, peering down on her half crouched behind some shrubbery. “What an unpleasant surprise.”

Braeden looked genuinely taken aback, like she hadn’t expected to come across them here. Stiles wondered if it was because of the car. Derek’s Toyota was a dime a dozen. Stiles' jeep on the other hand easily recognizable. Perhaps Derek's choice of car wasn't so stupid after all.

No matter the reason for her surprise, Braeden soon morphed back to her usual defiant sneer. Stiles hadn’t missed it one bit.

“I could say the same,” she said, smiling venomously.

“You just did,” he replied childishly. She had that effect on him. “I’m surprised your still around,” he continued.

Braeden stared back stonily, arms crossed, but didn’t comment.

“I was under the impression you were only motivated by two things,” continued Stiles smartly, “- money and obsession. Obsession about the Desert Wolf, who to my knowledge, hasn’t stepped foot in this town since she tried to kill Malia years ago, and money as a hired mercenary. Don’t know many folks around here in need of that kind of service. Not with Peter out of town,” he added musingly.

Stiles vaguely noticed the low hum behind him, but didn’t think much of it. Not when Braeden was smirking. A smirking Braeden was not good.

“I’ve been hired actually. Malia didn't tell you?”

“Malia?”

Braeden grinned lopsidedly, looking entirely too smug. "Yes, she came by Deaton's clinic the other day while I was there. He's the one who's hired my services, by the way. I'm helping him locate rare herbs and other medicinal stuff he needs for his practices, both veterinarian and supernatural."

Stiles cocked his head, regarding her narrowly. "A bit of a step-down for a renowned mercenary, isn't it? Tinkering with botany, I mean." 

Braeden shrugged. "I go where the money is."

"And the money is hiding behind bushes in the Preserve?"

Stiles gestured towards the shrubbery she'd been half hidden behind. Braeden's answer was lost when the hum behind him morphed into a mix between a whine and a growl. It took Stiles a few seconds to realize it was coming from Derek. Turning around, he saw he’d taken several steps back and looked like he was fighting not to shift into his beta mode. That usually meant danger, but aside from her rifle collection Stiles found Braeden about as threatening as an alley cat.

“You okay?” he asked. Derek didn’t answer, but his eyes flickered blue for a split second. Braeden cooed.

“Wow,” she drawled peering over Stiles’ shoulder. Her mouth went from sneer to leer in a split second. Stiles did not approve.

“So this is the real Derek, huh? He looks the same, I’ll give you that. Still, this one seems a bit more timid. Maybe even more frigid.” She laughed throatily when Derek growled. “Oh sweety, I know what you look like under those clothes and I approve. Just give me a holler if you ever tire of this.” She gestured to Stiles as if he was nothing but a pile of lard. “I’ll show you a good time, baby.”

She took a step forward. No sooner had she done that before Derek cracked his neck in that unmistakable way Stiles knew meant he was shifting. By the time he turned around Derek was all fangs, claws and no eyebrows.

“Hey, oh for the love of - ! Both of you stop it. Derek, she’s a bag of dicks I know, but not worth getting your claws dirty. As for you,” he whirled around, feeling his blood crackle with magical energy. “Lay off the innuendos and get going. You never had anything to do with Derek, end of story. I have no clue who hired you to hang out in the Preserve, but if I find out you’ve been messing with the Nemeton I will end you.”

Braeden laughed, shrugged and put her hands up. “No need to get your britches in a twist. I’m going. By the way, I can’t find the Nemeton on my own, can I, being all human and all, so don’t go throwing around baseless accusations. It’s not nice.”

“I’m not a nice person. Neither are you.”

“Touche,” said Braeden, picking up a bag Stiles hadn’t even noticed before now. A minute later she’d disappeared completely into the thick vegetation of the Preserve. Stiles noticed she moved in the opposite direction of the Nemeton.

“Good riddance,” he breathed, turning back to Derek. He was still in beta mode, nostrils flaring, eyes flashing.

“Seriously?” Stiles put his hands on his hips. “I get that she’s a douche, but did you have to go all feral wolf on her ass? What if there’d been others around?”

“There wasn’t,” wheezed Derek. Stiles rolled his eyes fondly.

“Not my point, but alright. What set you off, though?”

Derek rolled his shoulders again. As always Stiles was endlessly fascinated to watch his features change back to human.

“One day you have to explain to me where your eyebrows disappear to,” he said with a smile. Derek flicked his nose, but returned the smile, albeit somewhat hesitantly.

“Sorry,” he mumbled. “I dont’ know what came over me. I just saw her and it was as if instinct took over. She just seemed - I dunno. Dangerous somehow. I don’t trust her.”

“No one does,” complied Stiles, patting his shoulder. “Now, let’s get out of here before you can go all wolf on me again.”

“Idiot.”

“Just drive me home, wolfman.”

While Derek drove them back to his apartment to order pizza and most likely have loud and passionate sex on the couch, Stiles texted Liam asking him to keen an eye out for Braeden. Liam never saw her, still the encounter would continue to bug Stiles in the coming days. Later he would find out why, but not until a lot of other confusing stuff had gone down.

 

 

 


	15. Chapter 15

His dad found Stiles sulking in the living room when he got back from his shift. He took one look at the leftover pizza, the bowl of popcorn and a tub of half-melted ice-cream, sighed deeply and disappeared up the stairs with heavy steps. He returned ten minutes later sporting well-worn sweats and a very faded “Beacon Hills Sheriff Department” t-shirt. He plopped down on the couch next to Stiles, grabbed a limp slice of pizza and proceeded to not say a word while he ate. Stiles flipped aimlessly through the channels, not spending more than two seconds on anything before dismissing it, usually punctuated by a mumbled “crap”.

“So,” said the sheriff finally, his voice carefully neutral. “What’s up?”

Stiles answered with a series of gruff sounds that might or might not be actual words. If so they were doing a magnificent job of hiding their meaning.

“You only wallow in junk food and terrible TV whenever you’re feeling miserable. So,” his dad patted his knee affectionately. “I repeat the question: What’s up? And don’t think for a second I won’t sit here cramping your style until you divulge. Need I remind you I do interrogations for a living? I don’t want to practice my skills on you unless I absolutely have to.”

“You suck,” muttered Stiles. His dad shook his head with a soft smile.

“I do no such thing. That’s more your department, I think.”

He quirked a solitary eyebrow, probably to really underline the terrible pun. Stiles promptly chocked on a handful of popcorn, spluttering and coughing until his face was a deep burgundy. It was hard to tell if it was because of the thinly veiled reference to his and Derek’s sexual exploits, or because of the near asphyxiation. Probably both.

“Dad!” he cried, voice squeaky. “Don’t ever -.”

He gestured wildly, trying and failing to convey his distress through a complicated set of hand gesticulations that probably offended deaf people worldwide. His dad guffawed and patted his back.

“At least I got you talking,” he said smugly. Stiles quelled the urge to tip the rest of his soda over his head.

“If this is the kind of methods you use in interrogations I’m surprised you’ve not yet been suspended.” Stiles threw his dad a withering glare that seemed to just peel right off him.

“I have been suspended,” the sheriff reminded him with another arched eyebrow. Had Derek been giving lessons? “Never for my unorthodox methods of interrogation, though. Just my unorthodox son.”

“You’re never letting that one go, are you?”

Stiles still felt guilty about that. Even if it technically was all Jackson’s fault to begin with. The guy never could do anything the normal way and had to go ahead and become a freaking kanima. Typical. Stiles didn’t often think about Jackson these days, but in a weird way he almost kind of missed him.

“Never,” said his dad, although his tone was jovial. His face soon fell into concerned folds again, getting back on topic. “So, care to share what’s got you in a funk?”

Stiles squirmed, then shrugged. “It’s stupid,” he mumbled, fiddling with the fringes on the quilt half draped across his lap. It was the one his mom had made. The colors were hideous and the sewing crocked, but it was soft and comfortable in a way only nostalgia and love could produce.  
  
“I bet it’s not half as stupid as you think it is,” his dad reassured. “Why don’t you give your old man a go, huh?”

Stiles chewed on his lip, but didn’t say anything for a while. He opened his mouth a couple of times, then shut it again. Finally the dam burst and a tsunami of words spilled out.

“I’m just anxious all the time now, like I can feel that something is coming, and not just because of the attacks on the Nemeton. There’s just something in the air. I dunno. It kind of feels like right before a thunderstorm. Like there’s this electric tinge in the air somehow. It’s different than before, because usually we know who the bad guy is. Kanima, alpha packs, Dread Doctors, darachs. This time however - nada. Someone is messing around, planning something, but we have no clue who - or why. Is it Theo? Can we trust Danny who is mysteriously back right when this started? Where the frick did Peter go? He’s always been a fucker, so we can’t rule him out either. I went as far as wonder if Kate had escaped Eichen House, but I talked to Argent and he reassures me she’s still locked up.”

He paused, drew a breath then continued before his dad could interrupt him.

“Then there’s Derek’s crazy clone. Where did he go? Did he just vanish into thin air? Is that even possible? I mean, the guy was a real person, flesh and blood. It seems impossible to just go poof and be gone. But there is no trace of the guy. Then there’s Scott, who’s still acting weird, and we had a massive row and are worse off than ever. I don’t even know how to start on that to be honest. Not even sure I want to start. I kind of think he should, but that makes me petty and a lesser man, and I want to just suck it up and crawl over there, and I probably would if I thought it would do any good. In his current state, I don’t think it would make much of an impact. So it feels as if I’m giving up on him, but I swear I’m not.I just don’t know where to even start. Also, I woke up today feeling entirely convinced Jackson Whittemore is a nice dude and that I miss him. Which you know," he twirled a finger to his temple, "clearly means I'm losing my mind again.”

His dad looked like he was about to interrupt, probably with some heartfelt advice, but Stiles wasn’t quite done yet.

“On top of all that, there’s my magic mojo. I’m making progress, sure, but it’s like tiny baby steps.I can’t help but feel as if I should have worked out how to have the full force of whatever I’m capable of at my disposal by now. In addition, I have no clue what Breaden is doing here. I’m with Malia on that one, she’s weird. Derek full on growled when he met her, his wolfy radar going haywire, which is probably a sign in itself. Then factor in my interim pack head responsibilities and the fact that everyone seems to think I should embrace Deaton as my mental guide or whatever and I’m just peachy.”

“Is that all?” asked the sheriff, grabbing another slice of pizza as if his son hadn’t just listed an epic list of horrifying facts.

“No,” muttered Stiles, not even bothering to hide the raw misery in his voice. “Also, I miss Derek. He’s out “bonding” with Liam. Don’t look at me like that,” he added. His dad’s eyes had widened in the standard “whose idea was that” pose.

“It was totally Liam’s idea. I had nothing to do with it. It’s a full moon tonight, and Liam wanted the full wolfy experience. Apparently Scott is working and unavailable. Derek agreed on the condition Liam told Scott all about it. They’re out frolicking in the woods as we speak.”

He clicked the remote with excess force, flicking from a documentary on insider trading and landing on what looked like The Kardashians, who he under no circumstance was interested in keeping up with. His dad leaned over and gently pried the clicker away from him, patting him paternally on the head in the process.

“So, basically you’re jealous and moping,” he said casually. Stiles spluttered.

“No! I’m most certainly not! Honestly! I don’t do “jealous”. I’m just weighed down by my responsibilities and voes.”

His dad hummed non-commentary helping himself to a handful of popcorn. “Sure you are,” he said mock-agreeably.

“Absolutely! Why would I want to traipse along into the woods at night anyway?”

His dad shrugged. “Maybe because that is what you do - biweekly and always looking for trouble. You feel left out and ignored. I just pray to god you didn’t pick a fight with Derek over this.”

Stiles squirmed. His dad groaned.

“You did, didn’t you?”

“Not on purpose!” protested Stiles weakly.

The sheriff pinched his nose and leaned back heavily into the sofa, mumbling to himself. “I can’t believe I’m forced to have this kind of talk with you.”

“No birds and bees!” shrieked Stiles. His dad physically recoiled.

“Heavens, no! That ship has sailed a long time ago. This is more of the relationship variety, which means it’s intensely important. You should take notes.”

“I should go to bed, is what I should,” said Stiles, attempting to get up and yelped when his dad forcefully yanked him down again.

“Listen, Stiles. I love you, and a series of disturbing mental images aside, I actually like Derek. You two seem like a good fit, but even the best of couples need to work on things. My advice to you is simple, but still oh so very hard. You got to let Derek have his own things. Stuff that you don’t worm yourself into. Everyone needs breathing room and space. And this thing, being a werewolf - you can never fully understand that. Which is why you need to accept that certain aspects of that, like running on the full moon, will never be something you can share with Derek. Not fully, and not without forcing Derek to make adjustments to cater to you.”

Stiles hunched down further, shoulders slumping.

“I know,” he mumbled. “It still sucks, though.”

His dad nodded. “It does. When you like someone, you want to share everything with them. Let Derek know you support him and show that you’re interested in it. But if you keep pestering him about joining, you’ll only end up ruining it for him. He’ll spend more time worrying about you than enjoying the experience.”

Stiles sighed, but mustered up a sad half-smile. “You’re wise when you want to be,” he said teasingly.

His dad rolled his eyes. “Now he gets it. It was about time.”

They sat in companionable silence for a little while, the sound of Kardashians whining in the background. Finally Stiles nudged his dad in the side, smirking at him.

“So what did you mess up with mom to learn this lesson?”

“No comment,” said his dad hauntingly, faking interested in Kim and Kylie discussing haute contoure.

Stiles however was nothing if not relentless when he was on a mission. He continued to poke his dad at odd intervals with a steady chant of “confess” that put Septa Unella to shame - pun totally intended. In the end the sheriff gave in.

“Alright, alright!”

The sheriff grimaced in the way you did when you were about to divulge something embarrassing. Stiles was very glad he had popcorn to fully enjoy the show. He should probably be filming this for future blackmail scenarios.

“Your mom absolutely loved salsa dancing,” he began hesitantly, teeth clenched. “She and her girlfriends used to drive to the next town where there was a salsa club. They went once a month and I was deadly jealous. She was an amazing dancer and I always imagined she’d find some hot foreign guy with hips that didn’t lie, and leave me and my horrid dance skills behind and never look back. Just moonwalk out of my life in a fray of glitter and high heels. So I started to insist on tagging along. After just a few months they stopped wanting to go altogether. Your mom came up with increasingly outlandish excuses for the cancellations, and since I was secretly relieved I didn’t have to suffer through it any longer, I didn’t say anything. It was actually Melissa who set me straight, and told me plainly I was being an insensitive and selfish dick. Claudia later confessed that she fell even more in love with me for trusting her and letting her have this, even if we couldn’t share it. It brought her happiness, and I loved seeing her happy. Turns out that was enough for me.”

He smiled wistfully. Stiles sat paralyzed, a strange mix of amazement and shock welling inside him. It was a rare treat when his dad talked about his mom and he cherished every moment, soaked up the details like a desert-dry sponge. These little tidbits were coming more frequently these days. Almost as if the wound her death had left on his dad’s heart finally was scabbing over and he’d stopped picking at it. Slowly healing, although the scar would always be there. Scars didn’t have to be ugly, though. They told a story in themselves.

“I didn’t know that,” he whispered, feeling strangely misty-eyed. His dad let out a little laugh, looking almost surprised at the sound. As if he was amazed that thinking about, or talking about Claudia could produce such sounds and emotions, and not just pain and heartache.

“I’d almost forgotten,” he admitted. “Which is a tragedy. She was such a lively person, full of life and kept up a constant chatter about this and that. You’ve got a lot of her in you, Stiles.”

Stiles suddenly felt as if running in the woods wasn’t all that important after all. Derek might have the woods and being wolfy, but Stiles had his dad and the memories of his mother.

 

 

***

 

 

“So, how did Liam and Hayden do during their wolfy initiation?”

Stiles laid sprawled on top of Derek’s bed watching him sort laundry. It was horribly domestic and stood in stark contrast to their current topic.

“You make it sound like we have secret werewolf ceremonies in the Preserve,” said Derek, his lips curling slightly. Stiles feigned shock.

“You mean you don’t frolic in the woods, running naked with moon beams dancing on your skin while you take down unsuspecting game?”

“You’re an idiot.” Derek sounded incredibly fond.

“I don’t hear you denying this?” continued Stiles undeterred. “Did you slip into a Gandalf-like mentor mode, bestowing the younglings with your wisdom?”

Derek hummed and waggled his eyebrows, before his face slipped into the kind of expressions his dad sometimes got when Stiles had surprised him in a good way.

“They did good,” he said, voice quiet and yet undeniably proud. “It was -.” He paused slightly, shrugged and smiled in such a way Stiles almost lost his breath. Derek looked happy.

“It was a good night. I’ve missed it more than I thought.”

“I’m glad you enjoyed it,” said Stiles, trying his best to do what his dad had advised him. “You should do it again next full moon. You seem, I dunno, lighter somehow. Like you needed that.”

Derek put away the hamper and joined Stiles on the bed, laying down and hugging him close. “Yeah,” he said. “Maybe.”

“Definitely,” said Stiles, running a hand through his hair, still a bit messy and smelling like moss and pine trees. “I must admit I was a bit miffed I couldn’t come, but I get it now. You have wolfy needs. I can’t help you with that, I’ll only be in the way. Just like I will probably have magic stuff that you can’t be a part of.”

“I’m gonna tell you three special words now,” said Derek, nuzzling Stiles’ neck. His heart instantly sped up, breath hitching.

“Yeah?” he replied, voice half an octave higher than what he was aiming for. Stiles felt Derek smile against his neck. Felt his beard scrape lightly against his oh so sensitive skin. Derek hummed.

“I’ve felt like this for a long time. Since way before I even vaguely realized how I felt about you.”

Stiles feigned indignation. Mostly to mask his nervousness. Was Derek about to say what he thought he was about to say? Was he ready to hear that? Stiles wasn’t sure. So he did what he always did when things got scary. He joked.  
  
“What? You mean to tell me you didn’t want to tap this hot bod since our first meeting in the woods?”

Derek snorted.

“I think you’ve got the story all mixed up. You smelled of mojito mint gum and arousal that day. If anyone wanted to tap anything, it was you.”

“I always smell like mojito mint gum and arousal,” clarified Stiles with an eye roll. “Don’t flatter yourself, buddy.”

Derek sighed long-suffering. “You’re a moron. Now, stop distracting me, I’m about to tell you something profound.”

For what felt like hours, but in actuality only was about five seconds, no one said a word. Then…

“I trust you.”

  
Stiles’ brain was backtracking and computing, recalculating and analyzing. He’d expected the three important words to be “I love you”, but Derek had gone and completely floored him. This - this was - wow! Better even. Stiles couldn’t really breathe, and it wasn’t until Derek hugged him tight and rocked him softly back and forth that Stiles found his voice again.

“I - oh crap, I’m getting tears and snot all over your t-shirt.” He wiped his eyes, alternating between tears and laughter. “You fucker. I was expecting a declaration of love, and then you go and pull this on me!”

“You disappointed?” murmured Derek into his hair. “I thought it was obvious. That I love you, I mean.”

“Oh god, fuck!”

“I - Stiles?” Derek sounded worried. Stiles clung to him like a touch-starved Panda. “Oh God, did I mess up? I messed up didn’t I?” Derek tried to loosen Stiles’ grip on his shirt, but not even hordes of Zombies could pry him away.

“I love you too, you absolute fucker. And I trust you,” Stiles added, voice wobbly and emotional. He finally pushed away slightly so that he could look into Derek’s mesmerizing eyes.

“The trust thing, though,” he said, not breaking eye contact. “That’s - wow. I mean, you’ve been screwed over so many times by people, it’s amazing you’re even at a point where trust is possible. To be the one this honor is bestowed upon…”

He shook his head slightly, smiling so widely his cheeks hurt. “I know I joke a lot and coat most things in layers of sarcasm, but I hope you realize that I’m being completely honest now.”

“I do,” said Derek, leaning forward to brush a chaste kiss to Stiles’ lips. “I get you, Stiles. You don’t need to hide with me.”

“I know.”

Stiles still had an epically long list of problems with no clear solution in sight. Still, he left Derek’s apartment that night feeling lighter and better than he had in years. Like he could take them all on now, knowing that Derek had his back. Trusted him. If someone like Derek could trust Stiles, then perhaps Stiles could also even learn to trust himself again.

 

 

 ***

 

In the history of awkward dinners, this one was bound to rank pretty high, even on a national level. And that without Scott even being present! Stiles had heard tales of some of the awkward dinners he’d suffered through, both at Allison’s house and Kira’s, involving everything from mouthful of wasabi to, well Gerard! He’d laughed, teased and rejoiced at Scott’s misfortune, finding the stories nothing short of hilarious. Needless to say, he was regretting that now. Profusely. Karma most certainly was a bitch.

Stiles nipped at his glass of cider, careful to take tiny sips. Minuscule. Better yet, microscopic. This, because it gave him something to do and restricted his tendency to ramble, which he did frequently and relentlessly, especially when things were awkward. Which they were. Very. Tiny sips were also necessary, because the cider was sour as fuck. A normal mouthful would probably reduce him to tears.

He set the glass down gingerly and took stock of the situation. They were sitting around Natalie Martin’s elegant dining room table, in what at first glance looked like a cozy candlelit dinner. Look closer, and you’d soon spot the underlying tension, not to mention the distinct discomfort radiating from everyone present. Except, of course, the hostess.

The invitation had come by mail in one of those nice envelopes usually reserved for wedding invitations and other fancy arrangements. Stiles had come home from school one afternoon to find his dad just staring at a piece of paper with fancy calligraphy like it was something from another dimension. In a way it was. The Stilinskis didn’t much frequent fancy dinner parties. That sort of thing was a whole other world entirely, a point driven home by the fact that it took them close to 30 minutes to decipher the loopy handwriting.

Now here they were, overwhelmed not only by Mrs Martin’s tremendous gratefulness, but also the grandeur of the event. The plates were adorned with unpronounceable dishes, the crystal glasses filled to the brim with cider or wine, and the entire shindig was topped off with a thick layer of flattery and mindless smalltalk. The only thing glittering more than the silverware, was Mrs. Martin herself who’d greeted them by the door with h’dours and champagne, wearing a cocktail dress and a million dollar smile. It had dimmed somewhat when she laid eyes on Stiles’ “I support Single Mom’s” t-shirt and his dad’s uniform, but she recovered quickly. Stiles would count his blessings if he did.

Normally he had little trouble suffering through anything as long as the food was good. The many dinners at his babcia’s house, bless her memory, were glowing examples. She’d always insisted on conversing purely in Polish, of which Stiles had minimal knowledge. He’d suffered through it, mainly because her pierogis were heavenly. His babcia never really expected much in terms of feedback. She’d just patted his head and pinched his cheeks, seemingly content with his moans of delight.

Natalie Martin however, was most certainly not serving pierogi. Stiles suspected unless you took A level French, you’d be clueless to what they were consuming, which was probably a blessing, really. He silently prayed it wasn’t snails, though it wouldn’t surprise him. The taste and texture were both questionable, and it took all of Stiles’ meager acting skills to mask how desperately he wanted to spit into his napkin.

“Natalie, you really shouldn’t have gone to all this trouble.”

Stiles bit into his lip to suppress a snort. His dad seemed to enjoy the meal even less than he did. Mrs. Martin cooed and prattled on about how it was no trouble at all, and the least she could do, and weren’t the mussels to die for. She totally missed the underlying truth in his dad’s statement. She really shouldn’t have. A gift card to the local hardware store would be more than enough.

Not knowing how to cater to her guests’ tastes, was however not Mrs. Martin’s only failure of the night. In between batting her eyelashes at Stiles’ dad, Mrs. Martin would sporadically turn towards her other side and pat Deputy Parrish’s hand while beaming across the table at Lydia. Jordan looked over the moon, gobbling down the food with gusto and gazing at Lydia with stars in his eyes. Outwardly Lydia was the epitome of calm and poise, talking politely with Parrish, smiling and laughing softly. Sitting next to her, Stiles noticed her clenched fists, the tense set to her jaw and how she every once in a while threw murderous glances in her mother’s direction. They were all lost on her.

Stiles would probably have enjoyed the spectacle much more if it weren’t for Mrs. Martin’s third, and in his opinion, most glaring error. While she had the foresight to invite Stiles’ better half, she wasn’t up to speed on the latest developments. As a result Stiles was seated next to a very subdued and uncomfortable Malia.

“I’m so sorry,” he muttered for the umpteenth time.

He hadn’t known until it was too late. Malia had shown up last, wearing a dress she’d obviously borrowed from Kira. At first Stiles had just assumed it meant Mrs. Martin had invited all of Lydia’s friends, but when Kira never showed and he saw the seating arrangement it became clear that this was a couples dinner. Just without any real couples.

“It’s okay,” she mumbled back, staring at her plate in confusion. Stiles didn’t blame her. It looked like barf adorned with clovers and a sprinkle of sesame seeds.

“It’s not your fault, Stiles. Which fork do I use for this?”

Stiles glanced at the row of cutlery and shrugged. He knew nothing about fine dining. The Stilinski men considered Chinese takeaway a passable Sunday dinner. Plates optional.

“What even is this?” asked Malia prodding a mussel with a wariness usually reserved for ticking bombs.

“Some sort of seafood,” said Stiles, wrinkling his nose. Malia pushed her plate away unable to hide her disgust.

“Not exactly deer, eh?” said Stiles through clenched teeth, earning a rare smile in return.

“Even pizza would be better,” she tossed back. Stiles chuckled.

“You hate pizza,” he quipped, “which speaks volumes about this spread.”

Malia bowed her head, hiding a small smile.

“I didn’t think you knew that,” she admitted softly. Stiles shrugged, feeling both guilty and a bit self-conscious.

“I didn’t. Not at first. In hindsight, it wasn’t hard to piece together. I’m sorry by the way,” he added. “For pushing pizza down your throat at every opportunity and claiming it was your favorite. That was a shitty thing to do. I’m the last person in this rag-tag group of people to try and push “normal” on anyone.”

Malia took a sip of the cider before Stiles could warn her. The ensuing coughing fit earned a displeased glance from Mrs. Martin. Stiles handed Malia a napkin and patted her back, throwing their hostess his widest grins.

“It went down the wrong pipe,” he lied gracelessly. Across the table Lydia rolled her eyes. “It was so good, she hardly had time to chew.”

Lydia snorted. No matter, the explanation seemed to placate her mother.

“It really is divine isn’t it?” she trilled, then grabbed the sheriff’s hand. “It’s Lydia’s favorite, ever since she was a child.”

“Not even remotely true,” muttered Lydia out the corner of her mouth. Stiles grinned even wider. Parrish looked adorably confused.

“It’s time for dessert,” declared Mrs. Martin twenty torturous minutes later, thirteen of which had been dedicated to a long-winded diatribe about dandelions. “I’ve made it myself,” she added proudly before clattering into the kitchen on impossibly high heels.

“Everyone vacate the premises,” hissed Lydia the second her mother was out of sight. She tossed her napkin on the table and got to her feet in an almost otherworldly smooth movement.

“What? We can’t leave now! Can we?” asked Parrish to the room at large. Malia was already in the hallway. Lydia’s face was grim but determined.

“Leave and save yourself the agony of my mom’s baking, or stay and suffer the consequences. It’s your choice. But don’t come crying to me later. You’ve been warned.”

She tossed her hair over her shoulder and began shooing them all out of the room. Stiles and his dad shared a relieved glance, happily gravitating towards freedom. Weeks of sharing living quarters with Lydia had taught them the subtle nuances of her demands. Parrish still didn’t seem convinced.

“Come on, Jordan,” hissed the sheriff, gesturing for him to get a move on. “If she asks, we’ll just make up some story about an emergency call. It’s the kids that will have trouble explaining why they left.”

Parrish hesitated, shrugged and then joined them.

“Don’t worry, I’ll take all the blame,” whispered Lydia. “She planned this all without my knowledge and got absolutely nothing right. She can blame herself and no one else.”

Parrish looked somewhat crestfallen, but recovered quickly. Pursed lips was the only tell Lydia had noticed her mistake, still she carried on without letting it affect her. Stiles knew just how conflicted she was with regards to Parrish, and the hard choice she’d made. A choice she evidently hadn’t informed him of yet. Apparently, even geniuses stepped in it sometimes.

The trill of Mrs. Martin froze them all in their spots.

“I hope you’re ready for some Creme a la Natalie. I’ve composed the recipe myself.”

Still not entirely out of the house, there was no way they could leave now without being spotted. There wasn’t a lie believable enough to explain why the entire dinner-party was fleeing en mass.

“Crap,” hissed Lydia. Parrish looked white as a sheet. Two more seconds and they’d be busted! Malia swore. The Sheriff looked like someone had accused him of shoplifting.

Stiles made a split second decision.

“What on earth? Why is this door locked?”

“Did you just -?” The sheriff gestured towards the door, eyebrows arched impossibly high. Stiles shrugged, grinning weakly.

“Maybe?”

“Lydia! Open the door please. I need your help, dear.”

Lydia didn’t waste any time, and simply shooed them out with frazzled energy and some wild gestures bordering on a full flail.

“Lydia! Heavens, how is this even possible? This door doesn’t even have a lock! It must’ve jammed somehow. LYDIA!!”

Stiles was the last one through. Lydia slammed the door behind her and sprinted down the porch, heels clattering on the expensive looking slate. They congregated in a nervous, yet giddy huddle outside the gates.

“What happened? Did you honestly lock her inside the house?” The sheriff stared accusingly at Stiles, hands on hips. Stiles threw his hands up.

“Dad, come on! Don’t tell me you’d rather be stuck inside, forced to eat questionable baked goods and suffer through Mrs. Martin’s embarrassing attempts at flirting. No offense, Lydia, but your mom is not exactly subtle. Or smooth.”

“I know,” said Lydia with a shudder. “I’m sorry,” she added, addressing the sheriff. “She does that sort of thing sometimes, although usually I manage to run interference. I’m clearly off my game.”

“Don’t sweat it, I’ve been subjected to worse,” said the sheriff with a small smile. Next his pocket burst to life with the shrill, polyphonic tones of “Daddy Cool”. Stiles groaned loudly.

“Daaaaad,” he whined. “If you have to show you’re cool by telling people you’re cool, you’re not actually cool.”

“Cool it, son. It’s the station. Looks like we actually do have to go in,” he added to Parrish, who looked visibly relieved. “If it’s another disappearing building, I will lose my head.” The sheriff shook his head despairingly. “Three buildings gone like thieves in the night, no clues, no nothing. Not so much as a nail left behind. If I didn’t know better I’d say it was the work of magic.”

He glared at Stiles while he gestured to Parrish tag along. He followed the sheriff like a kicked puppy, casting wounded looks in Lydia’s direction.

“My dad is mental! Like I could make buildings disappear. If I could, the school would be no more. Also, you have to talk to him,” Stiles added plainly as they watched the cruiser speed off down the road. “Parrish is a great guy and you’re torturing him.”

“I know.”

For once Lydia sounded like an insecure teenager. “It’s just - .” She wrung her hands nervously. Behind them Mrs. Martin’s shrill cries of help were escalating in volume by the second.

“Hard?” suggested Stiles. Lydia nodded.

“It’s the right thing to do, not leading him on. You’ll hurt him more by dragging it out.”

“Yeah,” she said softly. “It would just be so much easier if I didn’t have any feelings for him. I have no issues turning down advances if I’m not really interested.”

“Really?” said Stiles sarcastically. “I never noticed.”

“Can we get out of here?” asked Malia. “Preferably somewhere with food. I’m still hungry.”

Lydia nodded, tossing her hair.

“I know just the place.”

 

 

***

 

  
‘Just the place’ turned out to be a quaint little Thai restaurant Stiles hadn’t even known existed. It was wedged between a questionably looking massage parlor and a men’s shoe shop that seemed to cater exclusively to the geriatric segment. How Lydia had found it was a mystery, but she was obviously a regular, because the staff sprung into action as soon as she stepped over the threshold. Within a minute they were seated in a cozy booth, nursing smoothies, food already ordered.

“This is amazing,” moaned Stiles, sucking on his straw like a man on the brink of dehydration. Lydia clucked her tongue, but looked pleased none the less.

“It is rather divine,” she agreed, taking a dainty sip.

“It’s orgasmic,” corrected Stiles.

“It does have a striking likeness to cum,” said Malia with her usual bluntness. “The texture is not far off either. This tastes better, though. No offense to your spunk or anything,” she added, piercing Stiles with one of her patented doe-eyed expressions that contrasted so starkly to what came out of her mouth.

Lydia laughed so hard she had to wipe away tears, her mirth also fueled by Stiles’ slack-jawed reaction. She didn’t even seem to mind when Stiles snort-sprayed bits of smoothie over most of her top. She simply rummaged inside the bag Stiles secretly suspected she’d stolen from Hermione Granger. It was a bottomless pit of unthinkable items, including a pack of Kleenex. She was still giggling as she mopped off most of the mess. Malia was smiling too, although Stiles suspected she wasn’t entirely sure what she’d said to make Lydia laugh like that. It didn’t matter much anyway. It was well worth it to see her look this relaxed and carefree.

“I still can’t believe you encouraged us to ditch your mom like that,” said Stiles, shaking his head.

“Says the guy that locked her in the kitchen,” commented Lydia dryly. “I still find that whole concept utterly unbelievable.”

“According to Morrell my magic mojo is all due to belief, actually,” said Stiles snottily, “so for once you’re actually wrong about something. Malia mark the date for posterity.”

“Huh?”

Malia looked confused again. Lydia tutted, then dived for her bottomless bag again, fishing out her phone.

“I’m just going to let our neighbor know to go over and liberate her. I shudder to think what she could get up to in there all by her self.”

Immaculate fingers danced across her screen. Stiles heard the little “swoosh” that signaled the text had been sent. Lydia grabbed her bag again, looked inside and frowned.

“This is odd,” she said, more to herself than anything. She reached into it and whipped out a book.

“That’s not odd,” said Stiles. “I’d say it would be odd not to find a book in your bag. Admit it, Lyds. You’re a huge nerd.”

“Of course I am,” she replied tartly, then flipped the book over so Stiles could see the cover. “This however. Not my book.”

“Whose is it then? The library?”

It was possible Stiles was starting to feel the effects of a sugar rush. High on smoothie. It was totally a thing.

“Hilarious, Stilinski.” Lydia was frowning. She opened the book, inspecting the jacket.

“No, this is not a library book. And even if it was, I haven’t checked it out. So what’s it doing in my bag?”

“Someone misplaced it?” suggested Malia. Stiles snorted.

“Highly unlikely. No one would dare touch it.”

“I would,” argued Malia.

Stiles had to concede that was true. Malia had a well-functioning survival instinct - in nature. Enter the halls of your typical high school and the overall concept was the same. The rules however, dramatically different.

“You’d also go out and hunt down a deer if you felt peckish. Normal kids would congregate at the nearest fast food joint.”

Malia shrugged. “I see your point. Perhaps someone just mistook it for their own bag.”

Now it was Lydia’s turn to snort. “They’d have to be blind, stupid and with no sense of fashion. This is a one of a kind Berkin bag. It’s not even in stores yet. I have a source,” she added with a hair flip.

“So, no mistake then,” Stiles concluded. “We can assume someone left you this book for a reason. Come to think of it, I’ve been finding strange books around my room as well. Do you think it’s connected?”

“It might be.”

She pursed her lips staring at the book like she wanted it to cough up an explanation.

“This is the first book in the Wheel of Time series,” Lydia added pensively. “I’ve read it. It’s good. I never finished the series, though. There are fifteen books and the author died before it was finished. I kind of lost faith in the project and stopped reading.”

“Fifteen books?” Malia’s eyes were bugging. “I had trouble getting through the Dread Doctor book.”

“Be glad you never read it backwards,” supplied Stiles comfortingly. It didn’t have the desired effect though. Malia sort of slumped down into the leather upholstery, playing idly with her straw. Lydia packed away the book.

“What’s it about? The book. Or books.”

“Hard to explain without getting into a long-winded review.”

“Oh come on,” whined Stiles, breaking out the doe eyes. They worked small, and sometimes even dirty, miracles on Derek. Lydia was a bit harder to sway, but it was not without its effect.

“Lots of magic and Mirror Worlds which represent what could have been had various events in history happened in different ways. Seriously, I don’t remember all the details but it had a freaking awesome yet very complicated magical and time system that spoke to my inner geek. I’ll look it over later and we can compare notes on this and the other books that have cropped up.”

Stiles shrugged. It was a good a plan as any. Yet, he was tired of doing nothing and just sitting around waiting for the world to explode around them.

“I hate doing nothing,” he mumbled. Lydia patted his arm.

“Then let’s do somethings,” she said smugly. “Let’s eat.”

As plans went it wasn’t all that bad. Stiles happily dug into the food with gusto, only momentarily distracted when he got a prickly sensation someone was watching him. A scan of the room revealed nothing suspicious. Stiles soon forgot about it when Malia decided to order seconds. God, that girl could eat!

 

 

 

 

 

 


	16. Chapter 16

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is from Malia's POV.

“Eh, Malia? Watcha’ doin?”

Malia froze awkwardly half sprawled on top of Stiles’ desk, craning her neck to look behind the mess of books, papers, clippings, soda cans and - crap. Ewww. That was a box of condoms. Empty box of condoms. She blushed, cheeks heating and nervous sweat pooling in her palms. She’d never get used to that. It was still such an odd sensation, and so far removed from her life as a coyote. Malia dropped the box like it was toxic waste. In a way it was.

She scrambled down off the desk, turned around and brushed her fringe behind her ear. Lydia made that look cool. Malia suspected she looked anything but.

“Hi,” she said flatly. Her shirt had tangled into the printer. She yanked it loose, unintentionally sending a wad of printer paper cascading to the floor like an avalanche. Stiles arched an eyebrow and dropped his bag on the bed.

“Hey yourself,” he said letting his eyes sweep over his room and the trail of mess she’d left in her wake. “Looking for something?”

Malia shrugged and bit her lip. Stiles continued to regard her patiently. His hair was damp. Probably fresh from the shower at school after lacrosse practice. Malia cursed inwardly when she felt the stirrings of attraction. Her primal coyote instincts wanted to pounce and claim. Her steadily improving social skills held her back. Barely.

“What’s up? You seem jumpy. You okay?”

The question took her aback. She’d been contemplating leaping out the window to avoid the third degree interrogation Stiles usually fell into like it was second nature. This was an unexpected turn of events. Almost as if he was willing to let her off the hook after catching her red-handed searching his room like a burglar in the night. That was - new. Very un-Stiles. Or maybe not. She clearly hadn’t known him as well as she thought. Or he’d changed. Or something.

“You seemed a bit distracted at school today,” continued Stiles, seemingly undeterred by her silence. “Or should I say more distracted than usual.” He grinned cheekily. “Liam stole fries off your plate, twice, during lunch and you didn’t even growl. That’s unusual.”

He had? Malia hadn’t even noticed.

“Liam sat with us at lunch?” she asked perplexed.

“I rest my case.”

Stiles let one of his arms do that weird spasm he’d patented that ended in an impossible wrist flick, making it look as if his limbs were entirely boneless. Like Harry Potter’s arm in that movie with the flimsy professor. Malia still got them confused. She’d never gotten past movie four anyway. She hadn’t even cracked open the first book, despite Stiles’ heartfelt recommendations.

“Wanna talk about it?”

No. Of course she didn’t want to talk about it. It was stupid anyway. And probably nothing.

Yet…

The conversation at the restaurant last night had brought it to the forefront again. Stiles had mentioned it, and she’d been unable to stop thinking about it ever since. On the one hand Malia wanted to let it lie, on the other hand she needed to know.

“I’m looking for the book,” she said hurriedly before she could change her mind. “I can’t find my copy,” she added in a murmur.

“Eh,” began Stiles, scratching nervously behind his ear. “I think you need to be a little more specific. What book?”

“The book,” said Malia tersely, “the Dread Doctor book.”

“Why would you want to read - ?”

Stiles paused, a look of realization blooming across his face, ending in a slack-yawed grimace. “Ah, of course. I get it.”

Malia snorted, crossed her arms and pursed her lips. Stiles did that windmill thing he excelled at.

“Don’t give me that huffy look,” he said, annoyance seeping into his voice. “I’m the East Coast Champion when it comes to that sort of destructive thinking. Trust me, I get it.”

Yeah, be probably did. Malia didn’t really repsond. Just continued to radiate a mix of anger and anxiousness. She was very glad Stiles wasn’t able to pick up on her chemosignals

“Here.”

Stiles had rummaged through one of his desk drawers, and handed her a photocopied version held together by a huge clip. It was frayed at the edges. A stain of what she hoped was some sort of dressing covered much of the front. She accepted it reluctantly and headed for the window without a word.

“Hey, where do you think you’re going?”

Malia stopped and gave Stiles a perplexed look. “Home. I want to get started right away.”

Stiles shook his head. “Nope, not happening. You’re staying here.”

“What? No - “

“No buts, no nos. I know you haven’t read it backwards yet, and I know you want to give it a go, don’t even try to deny it. You wanna know for sure if the Doctors ever did anything to you or not. Believe me, I get it. But what you need to understand is that if reading it unlocks memories of them, then you don’t want to be alone. That shit is trippy as all hell.”

“I can handle it,” she said gruffly.

“I’m sure you can. But you don’t need to.” He patted the bed. “Not alone. I threw up and had a panic attack after. Liam and Scott weren’t much better.”

When Malia still didn’t show any signs of moving, Stiles rose with a huff and crossed his arms.

“Malia, for Christ's sake, please make yourself comfortable. I’ll go get some snacks. You’ll need it. That shit is horrid to begin with. Reading it from the back doesn’t improve it by any standards. You’ll need provisions.”

Part of her wanted to bolt and refuse the offer of help. Stiles didn’t need her anymore. Didn’t want her the way she wanted him. Accepting his help felt like she was making herself even more dependent on him. She didn’t want to need him. She didn’t want his help. And yet, Malia dreaded facing the potential outcome by herself.

“Thanks,” she mumbled after another minute of inner debate. Stiles seemed relieved.

“Awesome! Or not really awesome - ah shit, you know what I mean. You just -” he gestured manically towards the bed again. “I’ll be right back with supplies.”

He darted out of the room. Malia skirted past the bed and settled in his weird gaming chair. She had a fairly good idea where the condoms from the empty pack had been used, and she was not touching that bed again! Ever.

 

 

***

 

  
Half an hour later Malia wanted to kill something.

“You doing okay over there?” asked Stiles, voice muffled by a mouthful of Doritos. Malia answered with a snarl.

“I take that as no,” he noted, voice almost void of mirth. Almost.

“This is crap! Horrible crap!”

Her fingers itched to shred the paper it was printed on, turn it into streams of unrecognizable strings and then flush them all down the toilet.

“I know.”

Stiles was tapping softly on his laptop, a rueful smile on his face. “Hang in there,” he added and then lobbed another can of coke Malia’s way. She caught it expertly.

“Is this the time when you tell me it gets better soon? That I just have to have patience.”

Stiles shook his head. “Nope. Not at all. In fact, it’s all downhill from here. Drink your coke and read on.”

“Never pursue a career as a motivational speaker,” mumbled Malia tersely, using a claw to open the can.

“Noted.”

They fell silent again. Stiles continued to type away at what looked like a History paper. His phone vibrated every now and then, but Malia didn’t ask who it was. It was probably him anyway. After a few minutes of mentally torturing herself with unwanted memories of Derek and Stiles mid-coitus, Malia finally focused back on the book. Somehow reading this monstrosity was better than letting her mind linger on her past with Stiles, and his present and possible future with Derek.

What felt like eons passed. God, this book was awful! Malia was just about ready to tear her hair out. Reading it backwards deprived it of any kind of logic. The more she read the more the words seem to simply blur into each other. Was it hot in here? It felt like it was kind of hot. Scorching even. In fact was making her kind of drowsy. A little nap couldn’t hurt. Could it?

Malia lurched awake with a yelp.

She braced herself for some teasing remark from Stiles, but it never came. Malia rubbed her eyes and glanced around blearily. When things finally came into focus, she understood why there were no teases and taunts. She was no longer in Stiles’ room. She was outside. In the woods. In the Preserve.

Malia’s breath hitched, a sort of unreal sensation washing over her. Almost like waking up from a long slumber. Those few seconds when you were still half stuck between the dream world and the real world. When the lines blurred. Was this real? She spun around looking for clues. She could virtually hear her own heartbeat ringing in her ears.

That’s when she noticed her.

Not her. Herself. Malia. Malia from before. Probably.

She’s on all fours, hunched over. Panting. Her clothes are dirty and torn, her hair long and messy, twigs and leaves sticking out in all directions. In short she’s a mess. A confused and scared mess.

“Hey!”

Malia called out, but her voice sounded wrong. Tinny. The Malia in front of her didn’t react, almost as if she couldn’t hear her.

“It’s a memory,” she whispered more to herself than anything. Only, if it was, it’s weird one, cause Malia can’t remember it. Not at all. She looked around again, searching for signs that can tell here when this was.

That’s when she spotted it. The Nemeton. Her heart lurched again, blood pumping fast, faster, the rush of it almost deafening.

Something’s not right.

Aside from the obvious, of course. Malia inched forward hesitantly. Carefully. She’s weirdly apprehensive of scaring this other Malia, even if she rationally knows she can’t see her. She’s also terrified of getting closer to the Nemeton. She can smell a faint whiff in the air, almost like a distant echo. She moved closer, wary not to step on any twigs of dry leaves, but she needn’t have worried. She’s not making any sounds at all. She’s like a ghost.

A step closer - Malia gasped.

Red. So much red. The Nemeton is covered in blood. Completely drenched. She recognized the smell now. Coppery and sharp. There’s even a trail of blood leading alway from it, in the opposite direction from where the confused Malia is now trying to get to her feet. She’s like a newborn foal, unsteady and frail-looking.

“Hello,” her memory-self called out, voice raspy. “Hello! Is anyone there? Where am I?”

A movement registered in Malia’s peripheral vision. Her other self seemed to have noticed it too, because they both whirled around in perfect sync. Even the soft cry that came next was identical. She might not remember this moment, but Malia definitely remembers _them_.

The Dread Doctors.

They flicker into existence, just like she recalls from the Sheriff station when Lydia was hurt. Strangely, she's reminded of that hologram message of Princess Leia in the Star Wars movie Stiles had made her watch. She’d liked that movie. Chewbacca was hilarious.

“Who are you?” asked other Malia. “Can you tell me where I am? I don’t get it? I was eating and then all of a sudden- “

She was cut off mid-sentence when one of the Doctors pressed a glowing finger to her forehead. It was as if he’d hit pause. Malia snarled and was about to launch herself at him, claws at the ready, when the arrival of another figure caught her attention. This one however was not wearing a mask or freaky robes. Instead, he sported the single most creepy leer Malia had ever seem. That, and he was old. Like ancient.

“My my, what have we here?” the old man drawled, sauntering over to other Malia. He crouched down, head cocked while he inspected her. Even though other Malia’s body was frozen, her eyes were still alert. When he brushed a wrinkled finger down her cheeks, they flashed with anger, and a low growl could be heard. The old man laughed. The laugh quickly morphed into a hacking cough. He fished out a stained handkerchief and dabbed at his mouth. It came away with what looked like ink blots.

“Well, this certainly is a surprise. Is she one of your creations?” he asked when he’d composed himself again. His gaze shifted from other Malia to the masked trio. "I have to give you credit. I never expected you to get things up and running this quickly. Never mind, the sooner the better."

“Not in subject pool,” the doctors chanted back at him, voices almost unintelligible. Like a radio signal with too much static.

“Subject has potential,” the one with the silky vest offered mechanically. Malia felt a chill run down her spine.

“No,” she whispered. She shook off her initial shock and ran at them. And ran. And ran. And yet she didn’t get any closer. It was like running on a treadmill chasing a carrot. Eventually she gave up and simply flopped to the mossy forest floor, resigned to just watch this nightmare play out.

The old man seemed pleased.

“Excellent. I'm eager to get to work. I understand you made some excellent progress in Russia. Let's hope you'll weed out the kinks soon enough. Prepare her, whoever she is.”

It was no use screaming. Malia watched, her mouth filled with bile, as two of the Doctors glided forward. One grabbed her arm and more or less ripped her shirt away to expose skin. The other brandished a huge needle of some sort. The injection was over in seconds. Other Malia’s only reaction was a flash of blue eyes. Then she crumbled to the floor, the paralysis gone. Her body writhed in obvious agony and she let out a soul-sucking howl. Limbs began to grow, bend and break. Malia closed her eyes, not wanting to see the transformation take place. She only remembered bits and pieces of her shift from full coyote to human. Predominately it had been pain. Judging by the agonizing cries vibrating trough the forest, this change was even worse.

An immeasurable time later the cries died down to a string of low whines. Malia pried her eyes open inch by inch and gasped. Before her was a fully shifted coyote. It spun around in circles, confused, almost tripping over its own legs.

One of the Doctors bent down and flipped its multi-colored monocle into place in front of one of the mask’s eye sockets, inspecting the animal.

“Prognosis promising,” was his immediate verdict. The old man clapped his hands in evident glee.

“Excellent!” he proclaimed. “This may not be part of the original plan, but a visionary must adapt and seek opportunities. As a wise man once said ‘Visions don't change, they are only refined. Plans rarely stay the same, and are scrapped or adjusted as needed. Be stubborn about the vision, but flexible with your plan.’”

“What a pompous asshole,” muttered Malia. The Dread Doctors were also wholly unmoved by his villainous monologue. Then again they didn’t strike her as particularly emotional in any way.

“What’s this?”

Evil Grandpa was kneeling by the Nemeton now, inspecting the bloody mess - pun intended. He looked more intrigued than scared. Out of the corner of her eye Malia noted that coyote Malia was now chasing her tail. What on earth? She was acting as if she’d never seen it before, which was preposterous.

“Blood on a Nemeton. Another unexpected development. Not entirely unwanted either.”

Malia’s attention was back on Evil Grandpa. All he lacked was a mustache to twirl. He looked like was plotting sixteen new ways to fuck over - well, everyone.

“I wonder who it could be,” he mumbled more to himself than anything. Malia snickered gleefully when the doctors began chanting, making him startle, stumble and fall ungracefully on his butt.

“Wolf. Emissary. Wolf. Emissary. Wolf. Emissary.”

“Wolf and emissary, ey?”

He scrambled to his feet accompanied by another coughing fit.

“Interesting. That could definitely work. Not sure who killed who, but it could work both ways. Time will tell, I’m sure. As for you, pet,” he drawled, turning towards the still confused looking coyote. “It’s time to run along. Shoo! SHOO!”

Coyote Malia turned tail and more stumbled than ran off, whimpering softly as she went. Soon she was lost between the trees and the greenery. The edges began to blur, a white light penetrated the dim clearing. Malia shielded her eyes and felt dizziness wash over her. Before she knew it everything faded into black…

 

 

*

 

 

“Malia! Oh, crap. Shit! Malia! MALIA!”

She couldn’t breathe! There was no oxygen, no nothing. Her throat was closing up, restricting her airways. She coughed, hacked and growled, lashing out, trying to find something to hold on to. Trying to find air.

“Malia! Oh hell, this is useless. Damn, she’s strong. Help me hold her down. Come on!”

She felt hands on her and instinct took over. She clawed and snarled at her assailants, but it was no use. Together they were too strong, and she was rapidly losing strength. In the end, she succumbed to her faith and went limp.

“Thank god. Oh shit, I’m bleeding.”

“You okay? It’s not too deep, is it?”

Who was talking? The first voice - that sounded like Stiles. The second she wasn’t so sure about.

“Stiles?” she rasped, turning her head slightly. After blinking furiously a few times, Stiles’ worried face gradually came into view.

“Hey there, slugger,” he said with forced joviality, a distinct tightness to his voice. “You calm enough to sit up? I’ve got a bottle of water here. You should drink something.”

She nodded dimly and a pair of strong arms helped her sit up. She was on the bed now. So much for trying to avoid it. Someone propped a pillow behind her head and she accepted the offered bottle gratefully.

“Not too fast,” ordered Stiles. “Do you feel sick? If you’re feeling nauseated you should pace yourself. I have a bucket here just in case you need to hurl.”

“I’m fine,” she choked out.

“That’s debatable,” retorted Stiles dryly. “Judging by your little fit the book triggered some sort of memory with you too. In that case, you’re not fine. That shit is mind-bending and gut-churning. No need to sugarcoat it, okay.”

She didn’t comment. Instead she finished the bottled and leaned back, eyes closed. The images still danced before her eyes, forever imprinted.

A phone rang.

“Shit, that’s mine. Sorry.”

She heard Stiles trip his way across the room. It was his dad. Something about a shift running late. She liked the Sheriff. He was a good man.

“Do you need anything else?”

Derek’s voice was low and comforting. Malia didn’t want to answer. Still, she couldn’t ignore him. Not when he was sitting right next to her, asking her direct questions. Besides, she had no right to be mad at him. Still, she was.

She opened her eyes slowly, forcing herself to look at him. His face was just as she remembered. Stubbled, handsome, earnest.

“I’m okay,” she said, teeth clenched. Derek winced. Yeah, that was less than truthful. Malia remembered the other Derek teaching her about scents and what it meant. He was good at that. Which meant that this Derek was probably good at it, too. And she wasn’t exactly doing a particularly good job of masking her emotions right now. Which wasn’t entirely fair to him. It wasn’t as if they’d set out to hurt her intentionally.

“I’m sorry.”

Malia’s eyes widened almost comically. In the background Stiles continued to talk at a rapid-fire pace with his dad, totally oblivious to the awkward conversation taking place. She forced herself to look at Derek again. His eyes were filled with raw emotion. She could smell it too, rolling off him.

Guilt.

“I know you are,” she mumbled, not sure what the etiquette was in this kind of situation. His scent confirmed his words. Derek was sorry he’d hurt her. “I’m sorry too,” she continued.

“What for?”

Derek was radiating anxiety. It burned her nostrils.

“I’m sorry I couldn’t be what Stiles needed,” she blurted, not sure where that came from. Derek looked surprised, then crestfallen. Like he’d accidentally killed a bunny.

“I’m also sorry that I still feel sorry about that.” She grimaced. “Crap, I’m terrible at this. What I mean is, I’m not mad. Or that’s not true, I am mad. But not at you. Or Stiles. I’m more mad at me. For not being enough. For not being right. And I’m sorry that you feel guilty about it. You shouldn’t. I don’t blame you.”

Derek looked like he didn’t know what to say. Malia was used to it. She had that effect on most people.

“So we’re good?” he asked tentatively, casting a futile glance over his shoulder. Stiles was now ranting about kale and carrot sticks and how fries was not part of a healthy diet.

“We will be,” concluded Malia.

“Christ almightly! One of these days I will kill him myself just to save him from dying of an heart attack!”

Stiles came crashing back towards the bed, arms doing complicated movements that put most of the dancers from Madonna’s Vouge video to shame. His face morphed back into worry when he caught Malia’s eyes.

“You doing good? You haven’t hurled yet? In that case, I think you’re out of the woods.”

He plopped down next to Derek, their arms brushing against each other, both leaning into the touch without even noticing. Malia noticed, though. She noticed it all. And she needed a distraction.

“Speaking of woods,” she said brusquely, “that’s exactly where I was in my memory. By the Nemeton, to be precise.”

That got both of their attention. The next half hour was spent retelling, over-analyzing and rehashing every detail.

“Gerard!” said Stiles, cheeks flushed. “That old geezer, that had to be Gerard Argent. Creepy, coughing black goo and sprouting pompous quotes - there’s no doubt in my mind. Besides, he was in cahoots with the Doctors before Kate killed him, that we do know for a fact.”

Malia’s head was spinning. “I don’t understand when this happened. I don’t remember being in the woods by the Nemeton like that.”

“What was it the doctors said? Wolf and emissary? And there was blood on the Nemeton, right?”

Stiles was already by the murderboard, furiously wiping away some errant notes about Deaton and druids. He scrawled down a few keywords.

“So, emissary obviously makes me think of the darach.”

He winced a bit as he said that, glancing tentatively in Derek’s direction. There was obviously something there Malia wasn’t aware of. Not that she cared much anyway. Derek stiffened a bit, a tensions washing over him, but he recovered quickly. Stiles let out a small breath and continued rambling.

“She was not just an emissary with lots of bad juju - she was also messing with the Nemeton - big time. Sacrifices, blood, the works. The blood could be her work. The wolf part though.” He shrugged. “That could be just about anyone.”

“The other emissaries we know of are Deaton and Morrell. We can’t rule them out,” said Derek. Stiles nodded.

“I know. I’ll ask Morrell tomorrow at school. Subtly, yes I know. I can’t be sure it’s not her. Malia, you can tag along to listen to her heartbeat and assess if she’s telling the truth or not.”

Malia nodded dimly, still confused. “But,” she began, mentally running through the timeline as she knew it. “If it was this Jennifer character putting blood on it - how come I was there,? As human no less? Didn’t she die or disappear or whatnot before you all helped me turn back?”

Stiles stopped, cocked his head and then seemed to be running through everything as well, counting off events on his fingers.

“Malia’s right,” he said, puzzled, addressing Derek. “It doesn’t add up. No one had seen human teen Malia at that time. We didn’t become aware of her, in all her coyote glory, until I was starting to lose my marbles and the fly thing kicked in.”

Stiles dumped down on his swivel chair, spinning around in lazy circles, muttering to himself. Malia leaned back against the pillows. This could take a while. Stiles tended to lose track of time and space when he slid into one of his “zones”.

“He does this a lot, doesn’t he?” asked Derek fondly. Malia grunted something that she hoped was interpreted as an affirmation.

They sat in silence for a while. Then, suddenly, Stiles shot out of his chair like a flash and scribbled down more bullet points in a virtually unintelligible scrawl. Net he rummaged around in a drawer and extracted several photos including a headshot of a beautiful woman with moles and features that at first glance reminded Malia eerily of Stiles.

“Who’s that?” she asked Derek, pointing at the photo that Stiles by now had taped to the board with bright red stickers. “Is it his mom?”

Derek let out a pained sort of half growl.

“No,” he choked out, eyebrows knitted closely together in a scowl. “No, that’s Jennifer Blake. Or Julia Baccari or what her name really was. The darach - the emissary that went dark,” he added helpfully when Malia still looked confused.

“Oh,” she said. “Was she related to Stiles somehow? They kind of look alike.”

Derek sucked in a breath and almost curled in on himself, letting out a low whine. That seemed to break Stiles out of his manic Sherlock mode.

“What did you do?” he asked Malia accusingly, grabbing hold of Derek’s neck in what she recognized as a soothing and comforting move. Scott sometimes did that to Liam, she’d noted.

“I didn’t do anything. I just asked him if you were related to her somehow.” She gestured to the photo. Stiles looked confused.

“Jennifer? The darach? You think we’re related? Why? Because I have weird magic mojo too? I swear, I did not sacrifice people at the Nemeton to get it. I’ll take a polygraph to prove it!! What am I even saying. You’re all walking polygraphs!”

“She could change her appearance at will,” mumbled Derek from behind the hands he was still hiding his face in. “She told me that. At the hospital, when we were trapped in the elevator. She even showed me. She chose that face. Those features. God, she must have done that on purpose. Oh my god, I feel sick -”

Derek grabbed the bucket Stiles had provided for Malia and dry-heaved into it for a good five minutes. Stiles looked beside himself, alternating between rubbing circles on his lower back and casting Malia perplexed glances. She couldn’t much do except get another bottle of water. When she got back Derek seemed to have run out of steam. Or bile. Or both. He was sitting on the floor, face splotchy and deadly pale underneath.

“I know she used some of her mojo on me, to get me to fall for her. I just didn’t -.”

He stopped, grabbed the bottle Malia held out and gulped it all down in an impressive 2.1 seconds. His hands were still shaking. Stiles grabbed hold of them, enveloping them in his own. It seemed to do the trick.

“Look at her, Stiles. Look at the shape of her face, the moles, the coloring. Even the way she talked. God, why didn’t I see it? She kept on rambling and she was jittery and awkward. I found it utterly adorable.”

“This isn’t exactly doing good things to my self-esteem here, buddy,” said Stiles, his face strained. “She modeled herself on Paige, didn’t she? Your first love?”

“Yes,” said Derek and Stiles’ face fell even further. Malia actually felt bad for him. “And no,” he continued softly. “It’s true that Paige had the same colors. She also had moles. And she was sassy and stubborn and drove me up the wall. But the exact same can be said for you, Stiles. Same coloring, moles, sassy, sarcastic and stubborn, jittery and prone to rambling. Jennifer was clever. When I think about it, even some of the situations we encountered each other were like echos of stuff I’d already done with you.” He shook his head, face set in distraught grimace. “She knew my type. Knew how to reel me in. Hell, she probably knew I liked you.”

“Whoa hold on, what?”

Stiles was gaping. And blushing. The atmosphere in the room was changing. Drastically. Malia grimaced. Some scents were too distinct to ignore, and the ones now floating around in thick waves, were the kind that told Malia it was time to bolt.

She said her goodbyes and headed for the window, but her words fell on deaf ears. The last thing she heard before she was out of hearing range was Stiles’ astonished cry of “you liked me way back then?” and then something that sounded suspiciously like clothes being discarded.

Malia ran even faster. She didn’t slow down until she saw the lights from her house twinkle in the distance. Her dad was cooking dinner. It smelled like meatloaf. Malia liked meatloaf. Loved it even.

It occurred to her as she climbed the steps to the porch that they never got around to discuss what it meant that the Dread Doctors had injected her.

Was she a chimera too?

That question wouldn’t leave her alone as she washed up for dinner. It followed her downstairs like a persistent bug, buzzing inside her head, louder and louder. She’d only unlocked that one memory. Was that the only time? Or had they continued experimenting on her?

She had to know. Know for certain…

“Malia! What on earth are you doing?”

Malia slowly lifted her head, meeting her dad’s horrified face. He was staring at her blood-soaked wrist. Malia had, without conscious thought, grabbed the nearest knife and sliced into her skin. It was bleeding. Profusely. Dripping all over her plate and the table cloth.

Her dad was already rummaging under the sink for the first aid kit, yelling for her to dial 911. He would probably be very confused in about two minutes when Malia’s skin healed. That was bound to be an awkward conversation, but it was something she’d been meaning to do anyway. It would be okay.  
  
Malia smiled broadly. It was probably the too wide one with entirely too much teeth. She didn’t care. Her blood had been crimson red, not a drop of mercury in sight. Whatever she was, at least she wasn’t a chimera. Knowing that was enough for now.

 

 

 


	17. Chapter 17

It was the third time Stiles woke up by his own screams. It was becoming an alarming pattern, and a pattern that by the sheriff’s rule of thumb meant there was definite cause to worry. Not that there had ever been any doubt in this case. Magical burns definitely rated high on the list of shit one tried to fix promptly.

Somehow, unfathomably, this one felt worse than the others. Much worse. Scream-yourself-hoarse, lose-your-voice, almost-pass out-worse. Stiles fell out of bed, gasping for breath. He hit the floor hard, crouched on all fours. His hands were so sweaty he lost his grip and thundered to the ground, jaw first. It was possible he fainted for just a moment. It was a blessing no one was there to witness it. If they had, he’d probably be on his way to the hospital by now. Which probably wasn’t such a bad idea, objectively speaking. Because this - this was agony!

Stiles clawed at his t-shirt, wanting it off as soon as possible. Terrible idea. Horrific. He hissed, spat and probably invented new curse words. Turned out his t-shirt was stuck to the body part previously identified as Stiles’ chest. Now it looked like a scorched wasteland.

“Holy fuck!”

Stiles stared in horror at the enormous burn mark covering most of his torso. At first it didn’t look like anything. Just a shapeless blob of charred skin. Then it hit him. It wasn’t a hand print. It was many hand prints, fused together, blurring into each other.

“Fuck!” he repeated, more or less dragging himself towards the bathroom. He suspected he looked like something out of The Walking Dead. If Rick Grimes caught sight of him, he’d shoot first and ask questions, well, never.

“It’ll heal,” he chanted to himself as he fought to keep a pair of scissors steady long enough to cut off the t-shirt. He had a vague plan of cleaning the wound. It couldn’t hurt. Or it could. It did. So fucking much! Still, it was probably best to disinfect it. Just in case. God, he was mentally rambling now. Not a good sign.

Stiles was relieved to see that the outer edges of the burn was already starting to scar over, pink and new skin visible underneath. It would probably take time, though. Much longer than the other times. He popped an Advil just to be safe. Come to think of it, better make it two.

Fifteen horrible minutes later, Stiles collapsed back on his bed, the wound haphazardly dressed. His head throbbed and his throat burned. He’d ended up throwing up, mostly bile. Up till now the pain had been all he could focus on. Now that it was glacially receding in intensity, his brain slowly began working again.

This was bad. Epically, apocalyptically bad. This was the third time he’d awoken knowing that the Nemeton was under attack. The other two times the burn had only surfaced when he’d been physically close. This time however, Stiles was miles away from it. Well, presumably. It did move around a lot. But unless the Nemeton, for unknown reasons, had moved into the Stilinski backyard, something that was highly unlikely since their house wasn’t even on a telluric current, this shouldn’t be possible.

And yet, it had happened anyway.

“Fuck,” he repeated for the umpteenth time, scrambling into a sitting position. Yeah, okay. No. That still hurt. Stiles leaned back again, fumbling for his phone. He should probably call someone. He found it wedged underneath his pillow, the battery very dead.

“Crap!”

Could this night get any worse?

Stiles scanned the room for his charger, but couldn’t see it anywhere. Shit. He was in no fit state to go on a scavenger hunt to locate it. Not yet. While he laid there, minutes ticking by in a snail’s pace, Stiles closed his eyes and reached out. The hum of the Nemeton was always with him these days. It had become so second nature, he didn’t really notice it anymore. It was like the hum of an air conditioner. Deafening at first, until it eventually fused with the environment somehow. It had become part of his nightly ritual to focus on it, and check that everything felt calm and steady.

What the - !

It was gone!

Well, not totally gone. Stiles concentrated, reaching - reaching - yes! There it was. He sighed in relief. It was still there. But faint. Much fainter than he felt comfortable with. Its defenses were still holding, but the attack had been a bad one. It was definitely weakened. No wonder his chest had burned despite the distance!

Heart racing, Stiles sat up ignoring the flashes of pain. He had to check up on it! Burns be damned, he needed to make sure. Perhaps he could help it heal somehow. It was worth a shot.

He scrambled to his feat, grabbing the nearest pieces of clothing he could find. The charger was nowhere to be found though. Stiles cursed creatively, then slapped his forehead and groaned. He was such an idiot!

He cradled his phone, shut his eyes and took a deep breath. What was it Morrell always said? That he was better at channeling his mojo if he understood the process. Charging a phone wasn’t intricate or illogical. It was just a matter of distributing electricity from one source to another. Stiles giggled softly, casting half a glance at his murderboard. He still had notes on thermodynamics up there. In essence, this was a prime example of just that. He couldn’t “make” electricity. It needed to come from somewhere. Yet, if Morrell was right, all he had to do was believe he could redistribute it, just bypass the whole cord and shit.

“Sorry buddy,” he muttered in the direction of his laptop. Stiles screwed his eyes shut and willed the power from one unit to another. He knew he’d succeeded when he heard the telltale beeps of the laptop powering down. His phone came to life a second later.

Stiles let out a whoop and awkwardly limped down the stairs, belting out a near-manic rendition of ‘I’ve got the magic in me’.

 

  
*

 

It wasn’t until he was on the road, speeding towards the Preserve, that Stiles got around to actually calling someone. He tried his dad first, but his private mobile was switched off. He called the switchboard at the station next and inwardly cursed when Deputy Hills answered. Not only was he a stickler for the rules, he was also no fan of the Stiles.

“Sorry, the Sheriff is out on call at the moment. Personal issues from his son at 2 AM will have to wait,” he said primly. Stiles grit his teeth. It sounded like he was enjoying shutting him down, the sadist.

“Fine,” barked Stiles. “Please let him know the moment he gets back that I need to talk to him - urgently!”

“I’ll put a note on his desk,” said Hills. Stiles almost missed his turn in frustration.

“No, dammit! No note! Give him the message personally. The moment he steps into the station. Okay?”

“That depends,” drawled Hills. “If he’s got someone in custody, regulation states that - “

Stiles hung up with a growl. He’d have words with his dad about that loon tomorrow. He took a deep breath and called Derek.

“Stiles? What’s wrong?”

Derek sounded oddly alert for 2 AM. Was that a werewolf thing? Stiles pushed that question back before it spilled out and took focus from the issue at hand. An alert Derek was a blessing at any rate.

“The Nemeton,” said Stiles in a rush, groaning slightly when a sharp turn tugged on his still unhealed burn. “There’s been another attack. A big one. I’m on my way there right now.”

“No, Stiles! Wait!”

It sounded as if Derek was getting dressed, half the words were slightly muffled.

“Don’t go into the Preserve alone. Wait for me. I don’t want you alone if it burns you again.”

Stiles barked out a mirthless laugh. “Too late,” he said with mock cheer. “I’m already nicely toasted.”

“What! Where are you?”

“Right now? In my car. I was snuggled up in bed when it happened, which is alarming on every level. Please get your quarter-bouncing ass going right away. I’ll see you there.”

“STILES! Pull over right now! Wait for me. You shouldn’t be driving. What if it happens again?”

“Awww, you care,” teased Stiles, slowing down for a red light. Derek growled on the other end.

“This isn’t a laughing matter,” he hissed angrily. “It’s also not up for debate! Pull the fuck over and wait. Where are you?”

“Calm yourself, wolfie,” said Stiles, equal measures touched and annoyed. “I’m at the intersection of Maple and Sexton. I’ll park it by the gas station down the road, okay?”

Derek answered in a series of low growls that Stiles took to mean he was at least somewhat appeased. The light finally switched to green and Stiles continued on his way.

“I’m in my car,” said Derek tersely a second later. “I know you’re driving again. That Jeep of yours makes more noise than a football stadium. I’m staying on the line until you’ve parked it.”

“Yeah, yeah,” said Stiles, fiddling with the window wipers. There was a huge dollop of bird shit on his window.

It happened fast, and yet still slow enough for Stiles to register an alarming amount of information.

Firstly, there was a woman standing in the middle of the road. Secondly, she looked exactly like - but no. That wasn’t possible. Unthinkable even. Thirdly, she wasn’t moving.

“OH MY GOD!” was all he managed to yell before he had to make the impossible choice: Run her over or crash his Jeep.

“STILES! What was that! What happened? Stiles! STILES!” yelled Derek, voice high-pitched and frantic.

Stiles didn’t hear the half of it, nor have time to reply as the Jeep swerved violently, and then collided forcefully into a lamppost.

Then everything went dark.

 

 

***

 

 

When he regained consciousness it didn’t take Stiles more than a few seconds to understand where he was. The fucking hospital. He’d clearly spent far too much time there lately. That, and the clues were plentiful, from the dreaded machine emitting its long-suffering beep every time his heart thumped, to the sterile smell in the air. The most glaring one was still his dad’s very worried face peering down at him from above.

“You’re getting wrinkly,” mumbled Stiles, his tongue not as cooperative as he’d liked. In fact, it came out sounding more like “you get inky”. Someone had been kind enough to administer him a generous dose of morphine. He should remember to write them a thank you card.

“Why are you upside down?” he drawled when his father made no sign of speaking. Stiles turned his head slightly and rainbow colored sparkles danced across his nose. Yeah, he was stoned as fuck.

“You’ll put me in an early grave, I swear to god.”

The sheriff’s voice was gruff, and yet the raw emotion wasn’t lost on Stiles, no matter the amount of drugs coursing through his bloodstream.

“Not if I beat you to it,” he replied smacking his lips. God, he was parched.

“Don’t even joke about stuff like that,” demanded his dad as he leaned forward to help Stiles to some water. “What were you thinking?”

“I wasn’t.”

Stiles tried to wipe away some of the water he’d spilled down his chin like a three month old baby.

“No shit! Son, I should revoke your driving license! I actually have the authority to do that. Permanently! Honestly, driving around in the middle of the night, alone, when you knew you could be hit with a magical burn at any moment. I saw the pink skin on your chest, sonny,” he added tersely. “Don’t even try to deny it. Besides, Derek filled me in.”

Holy fuck, Derek! Stiles lurched abruptly trying to sit up in bed. He didn’t achieve much aside from a tsunami of pain.

“Honestly Stiles, what is wrong with you?”

The sheriff sounded distressed and near-panicked. He was on his feet in a split second, helping Stiles who were in the process of getting tangled in in the various chords attacked to his body.

“Can’t you just lie still and heal like a normal person?”

“Apparently not,” mumbled Stiles peeking inside his hospital smock. Yeah, his chest was back to it’s pale and mole-infested state, a soft pinkish tinge the only reminder of what had been a crater of blistered skin just hours ago.

“Where’s Derek?”

The Sheriff rolled his eyes fondly. “Don’t worry, he’s fine. He was in a right state when you were brought in. If there was ever any doubt that man cares for you, they’re all erased now.”

“Did he growl at you?”

Stiles smiled despite it all and promptly winced. Damn his frail human body! Good thing Derek loved him. That was better than any drug. Sometimes it was still hard to fathom that it was all real. It was nice hearing other people confirm it. If it involved Derek growling a little to get his point across? Well, Stiles could live with that.

“He did,” confirmed his dad in that voice that was meant to sound exasperated, but failed spectacularly to hide his fondness. “He even flashed his eyes a couple of times. At one point I was afraid he was going to sprout claws and fangs. One of the doctors was throwing around a lot of medical jargon and Derek didn’t have time for any of that shit. In the end we had to give him a little something to calm him down. He’s sleeping.”

The sheriff gestured to the back of the room. Straining his neck just a little Stiles could vaguely make out the familiar shape of Derek’s back turned towards him, lying on a hospital cot.

“How did you manage that?” he asked. His go to solution to stop his furry friends was down to mountain ash circles and little else. Had Argent blown back into town with some new stuff that he wasn’t aware of? Somehow the idea of his dad conducting clandestine meet-ups with Chris Argent didn’t exactly help him find the zen state he probably should be aiming at. Thankfully, that was not the case. The answer however, was almost as scary. In retrospect it was rather obvious.

“I didn’t manage anything. Lydia managed that,” said his dad tiredly. He sounded caught between pride and thinly veiled fear. Stiles knew the state well. He’d practically invented it where Lydia Martin was concerned.

“Why am I not even surprised,” he mumbled. His dad shrugged.

“Because she’s a borderline genius and generally works in mysterious ways. All I know is that she breezed in, blew a handful of blue powder in his face and he just crumpled to the floor. Handy. I’d like to get my hands on some of that. Just to be on the safe side,” the sheriff added with a pensive nod.

Stiles did his level best to conduct all his flailing mentally. Not that he succeeded much. Or at all. He bit his tongue to avoid screaming out in agony. Yeah, he might have a broken rib. Or two.

“Lydia? Lydia’s here? How? Why? Did you call her? In the middle of the night? Are you insane?”

His dad shook his head. “Oh no, it was the other way around actually. She called me.”

Stiles gaped. “She did?”

“Indeed,” confirmed his dad. “My eardrums are still ringing, truth be told. Remind me to always put banshees on speaker, and not have the phone close to the ear. Possibly invest in a muffler.”

“She screamed? For me?”

“I did.”

Both Stilinskis turned towards the voice coming from the door. Lydia Martin stood illuminated by the harsh fluorescent light in the hallway and still, miraculously, managed to convey the vibe of a runway model. She was carrying a tray of coffees and a bag smelling like fresh pastries. She strode into the room, heels clicking and pulled up a chair, all while giving off the air of royalty.

“But I’m not dead,” was all Stiles managed to pipe out in lieu of a more appropriate greeting. He didn’t get it. Wasn’t banshees supposed to scream for the people about to meet their untimely demise?

“I don’t make the rules,” said Lydia with a shrug. “What do I know? No one handed me a Banshee Manual. I just know that I woke up in my bed gasping for breath and knowing with absolute certainty that you were about to die. I barely managed to hold the scream at bay long enough to dial your father.”

She handed a Styrofoam cup to the sheriff, pinning him with a steely glare. “For your information, Sheriff, there’s nothing “borderline” about my genius. I have an IQ of 175.”

“Duly noted.”

Stiles’ dad looked properly chastised, like he’d just been confronted by a stern headmistress, and not a senior high school student. Stiles snickered into his cup, almost spilling hot beverage all over his torso. As if he hadn’t had enough burns lately. In all honestly, he probably shouldn’t be trusted to handle warm liquids in the drugged up state he was in. Lydia evidently agreed, because she unceremoniously plucked it out of his somewhat limp grip. Stiles made pathetic gimme gestures, but she was relentless. Pouting didn’t help either. Oh well, what did it matter anyway? He had questions that needed answers. Coffee could wait.

“But Lyds!” he whined. “I didn’t die!”

Stiles really didn’t get this! Maybe it was the drugs in his system tripping up his logic?

“Clearly,” said Lydia condescendingly, sharing an exasperated look with his dad.

“It came pretty close, though,” supplied the sheriff, all traces of humor gone from his voice. “Your windshield was pierced by a six feet long iron pole. It missed you by inches.”

“Almost like Donovan,” Stiles mumbled. “Bad karma thy name is Stiles.”

“What did you say?” asked Lydia handing him a cinnamon roll. Stiles grabbed for it, miscalculated horribly. It bounced off his chest and rolled almost to the end of the bed, leaving a trail of sugar crumbs in its wake. It was possible his depth of vision was slightly uncalibrated.

“Nothing,” he replied, plastering on a wide smile that by the looks of things wasn’t fooling anyone. Thankfully, Derek chose that moment to wake up.

“Do I smell cinnamon?” he muttered drowsily.

“Honey cakes, you’re awake!” shrieked Stiles giddily, all thoughts of Donovan and lost cinnamon rolls forgotten. He almost toppled out of the bed trying to get a clear view of his boyfriend. Derek was adorable in the mornings. The rumpled and grumpy combo did things to Stiles, both emotionally and physically. The latter was a strict no no at the moment, although he had no doubt little Stiles could probably be persuaded to engage in a little little something. It would probably kill his dad, though. Better not risk it.

The Sheriff narrowly managed to save him from face planting to the floor. Stiles muttered some muffled thanks, grateful to be spared the embarrassment of getting injured in the hospital. Lydia for her part simply sipped her coffee, eyebrow raised, like she was casually watching a daytime soap. Derek in turn let out cry of joy, flailed and leapt from the cot, the blanket trailing after him like a cape as he sprinted across the room.

“My superman!” snickered Stiles. It was a testament to how worried Derek was that he didn’t even award him a disdainful eyebrow.

“Are you okay?” Derek grabbed Stiles’ hand, gripping it just a teeny bit too tight. “You don’t look okay. Oh god, you’ve got so many bruises! Is anything broken? Internal bleeding? Brain damage?”

“Hey dude, my nuggin’ is made of titanium. Ain’t nothing gonna knock me down.”

Derek stared at Stiles in what looked like confusion, then glanced at the others.

“It’s brain damage, isn’t it?” he asked, voice oddly flat. Stiles’ dad shook his head, smiling.

“He’s drugged up to his hairline. He’ll make more sense when it wears off. Or as much sense as he ever makes, I guess. It’s probably too much to hope for that the crash actually put his head right.”

“Mean daddy,” pouted Stiles, flashing his dad the finger. Or trying to. It was more like a poorly executed Vulcan greeting. “You have my permission to rip his throat out,” he stage whispered to Derek. “With your teeth.”

“Perhaps we should let Stiles have a little nap,” suggested Lydia.

“No!” Stiles made grabby motions towards the bag of pastries. “I wanna a bun. I need my strength. Bun, me!” He giggled, glancing dopily at Derek. “Do you want a bun, hun?” he asked with ill-concealed mirth.

“Someone sedate him, please,” said his dad with a sigh. “I’m going to go see if I can find Melissa.”

He all but sprinted out of the room.

“Lydia, give Derek-poo a bun, please. He’s got bunny teeth. A bun for my bunny. Oh, I’m so funny.”

Stiles whooped loudly, accompanied by what would’ve been a fist pump if he weren’t severely restricted by the cannula in his arm.

“That rhymed!” he added gleefully.

“Oh lord,” mumbled Derek, though he was smiling. “I should film this for posterity.”

“I already am,” informed Lydia matter-of-factly.

“Bless you.”

 

  
*

 

Getting some food in his system actually did have a positive effect. Stiles finally stopped waxing poetic about Derek’s bunny teeth when Lydia let him have a cinnamon roll. Derek abstained from replying or commenting in any way, looking adorably entertained by Stiles’ drugged up rants. After every last crumb was devoured, he felt a bit clearer somehow.

“Don’t let my dad hear this, but I think sugar has curative effects,” he mumbled happily, patting his stomach with clumsy movements. “Not on cholesterol though. He’ll need to stick with his kale diet until his dying day.”

“Naturally,” said Lydia. “Although I could argue that hyperactivity and excess levels of sugar is a combo generally not recommended by physicians worldwide.”

“Hogwash and hearsay. I’m the living embodiment to the contrary.”

“That’s highly debatable,” muttered Derek. Stiles pinched his nipple.

“What kind of support is this?” he asked sulkily. Derek shook his head.

“The kind that will preferably keep you alive. In case you’ve missed the memo, I kind of like you. I want to keep you around, if that’s not too much to ask.”

“You make it sound as if I run around with a death wish or something.”

Stiles said it jokily, but neither Derek nor Lydia laughed or as much as cracked a smile.

“I don’t!” he protested, voice climbing several octaves.

“Then why drive alone when you knew there was a huge risk of getting a magical burn?” demanded Derek harshly.

“The Nemeton was under attack! Should I’ve just rolled over and tried to get back to sleep?” Stiles glared at his boyfriend. “I’m connected to it. I’m the frigging gatekeeper. It’s what I do! Besides,” he added accusingly. “You’d done the same thing. You’re not the one who should lecture me about not throwing myself into danger.”

Derek threw his hands up, eyes rolling skyward.

“You’re impossible! You could’ve called me! I would’ve come to pick you up!”

Stiles snorted. “Really? Like the last time, when I had to trap your ass in mountain ash to go do my duty and check on it? Yeah, sorry, but no.”

“Stiles has a valid point,” offered Lydia from the sideline. Derek threw her a whithering glare. He shouldn’t have bothered. Lydia Martin was impervious.

“Never mind me and my issues,” remarked Derek stiltedly. “We can deal with that another time. Let’s instead focus on the fact that it happened again and you almost died because of it?”

The last few words were hissed out through clenched teeth. Stiles was positive he caught a glimpse of a fang.

“What are you on about?” he asked somewhat confused. The sobering effect of the cinnamon roll was wearing off. He suspected the drip in his arm kept supplying his body with morphine, which was both awesome and annoying, especially if you wanted to use your brain, like productively.

“You crashed your car, Stiles!”

“I know that, captain obvious,” he replied sarcastically. “Hence the hospitalization and abundance of bruises. What does that have to do with anything?”

“It burned you again while you were driving! Why else would you swerve clean across the street and collide with a lamppost? There was no traffic of any kind, and scatterbrained as you might be, you’re actually a decent driver.”

Yeah. Right. That.

Stiles glanced at the door, half expecting his dad to burst through. It would be typical of him to return right now, his freaky cop sixth sense tingling. Stiles did not want that. Not at all. He gathered his strength, scrunched his nose in concentration and seconds later heard the click of a lock being turned. It wouldn’t keep him out indefinitely. The doors didn’t lock from inside and Melissa was sure to have a key. Still, it would delay him at any rate, and most importantly alert Stiles of his presence.

“Why did you lock the door?” asked Lydia curiously, leaning forward, sensing a juicy story much like killer whales smelled blood. Or piranhas.

“Privacy reasons,” he admitted reluctantly. There was no use trying to lie anyway, not with a genius and a lupine lie detector flanking him. Sadly, having magic hadn’t magically made him a better bullshitter.

“I don’t want my dad to -”

He stopped, drew a deep breath and tried to gather his wits. God, he didn’t want to talk about this.

“Stiles? What is it? God, you’re scaring me.” Derek looked worried.

“I dunno, alright,” said Stiles in a rush, shrugging tiredly. “That’s the problem. I know what I think I saw, and yet it couldn’t be. It’s like, impossible. So I’m thinking some sort of shapeshifter is out and about. Someone who can assume the looks of other people. Didn’t the darach do that? Sort of anyway. Sprayed with mistletoe she looked like something straight out of Nigthmare on Elm Street.”

Derek squeezed his hand reassuringly. Stiles swallowed with difficulty. “It could be the sluagh again, I suppose,” he mumbled. “I was kinda hoping it had skipped town permanently, though.”

“You saw Donovan again?” Lydia sounded uncharacteristically upset. “In that case it probably was the sluagh. Didn’t it follow you around before?”

Stiles shook his head, biting his lower lip nervously. If only it had been Donovan. Donovan impostors he could handle. This however… If anything had ever challenged his sanity, this was it.

“Who did you see, Stiles?”

Derek’s voice was velvety and soft. Reassuring and safe. There wasn’t a trace of skepticism or annoyance to be found.

“My mom.”

Stiles whispered the words, almost choking on them as they spilled out of his mouth. They felt alien. It was as if time stopped. Perhaps it did. Lydia and Derek looked frozen in place.

“Stiles,” began Lydia hesitantly, her hand reaching out for his. He jerked it away, crossing his arms defensively.

“I know what you’re going to say, okay.” He shook his head, as if to clear out the cobwebs. “I know that it’s insane and impossible. I know it wasn’t real -” he scoffed, rolling his eyes. “This town is bat shit crazy, but I’ve yet to come across zombies. Which means I’ve either finally snapped, or -” he held out a finger to silence Derek’s beginning protests. “Or, we’ve got some sort of shapeshifting creature on our hands.”

“Perhaps it’s linked to the assault on the Nemeton,” suggested Lydia matter-of-factly. “Whoever is attacking it, is trying to weaken its protections. You’re an intricate part of that. You’re its guardian, the one person who can lock it down. Or open it up.”

“So, they sent a mirage of my long dead mother?”

Stiles fought to keep the doubt out of his voice. It hadn’t felt like an attack. Nothing had burned. Not so much as a singed body hair in sight, and the connection to the Nemeton felt - well, fine was perhaps stretching it. But it was intact, that much he knew.

“It’s a theory.” Lydia tossed her hair. “Given that it’s my idea, it’s probably right. Time will tell.”

Derek’s hand was clasped almost painfully on Stiles’ shoulder. Yet it was exactly what he needed. What he craved. Something to anchor him despite this latest twist. Stiles had to admit Lydia was probably right. Whoever was behind it all had stepped up their game and wasn’t just weakening the Nemeton physically - it was also weakening its guardian, and doing so in the most painful way possible.

“Don’t tell dad.”

“We won’t,” promised Lydia. Derek simply nodded, his facial expression suggesting Stiles didn’t even have to ask.

They lapsed into silence after that. There wasn’t much more to say, really. The sheriff returned a while later, clutching a wad of release papers. Stiles couldn’t get out of this miserable place fast enough.

 

 

***

 

 

Getting discharged from the hospital took way longer than Stiles had patience for. First there was a stack of forms to fill out longer than the state of the union. The process involved much huffing, the breaking of two pens and a lot of ink stains. Next, his dad had to take a trip down to the insurance office, and yeah, that brought on an almost panic inducing guilt. The sheriff put on a stoic face, claiming it was probably nothing, but Stiles knew his dad well enough to recognized the worried hunch to his shoulders.

Stiles was left behind, biting his nails nervously, wondering if he should start to mentally prepare for Community college. After a few tense minutes, Derek mumbled something about getting Stiles some jello and rushed out. He came back twenty minutes later sans the promised gelatin treat, but with a satisfied gleam to his eyes. Stiles’ dad returned a few moments later, pushing a wheelchair and sporting a flushed, yet bemused expression. Stiles had his suspicions about what had gone down, but decided to let it rest for the time being. Mainly because he was exhausted and ached everywhere. He longed for his own bed, and as long as he got the leave, he didn’t much care who had paid for what.

Finally back at the house, the Sheriff and Derek engaged in a warped sort of competition on who could make Stiles the most comfortable. Stiles embraced the opportunity, milking it for all it was worth. After ordering the pair of them around like a set of grumpy English butlers, being sufficiently supplied with blankets, pillows and a myriad of beverages, Sti1es felt his eyes droop. He soon drifted off into oblivion, leaving the two men in his life to continue their squabble about who would get to cook him lunch.

The next time he opened his eyes, his room was cast in shadows, the sun clearly setting. With great difficulty he struggled into something that vaguely, and with creative squinting, might pass for a sitting position. Someone had placed a glass of water, heavy on the ice cubes and with a bendable straw on his bedside table. A few small sips were all Stiles could manage before he started to feel drowsy and tired again.

On his way back into dreamland, a slight movement by his window made him freeze. When he focused there was nothing there.

“Derek? Is that you, you creeper?” he whispered.

There was no reply.

Stiles shrugged, slithered down into bed again and promptly forgot all about it as he drifted off into a dreamless sleep.

 

 

*

  
When he woke again, he was not alone.

“Jesus!”

Stiles had not expected anyone to be sitting in the chair staring at him. Rewind a few years and he wouldn’t be surprised to find Derek doing that. He’d been startled yes, but not surprised. Wait, wasn’t that like an oxymoron? Whatever.

This was most definitely not Derek.

“God, you gave me a fright,” he gasped, heart beating hard. “What’cha doing here?”

Scott squirmed in the seat, looking forlorn and nervous.

“Lydia told me what happened. I was worried.”

Stiles regarded him sceptically. He sounded sincere enough. Looked it too. Gone where the haughty and defiant attitude of lately. Instead, Stiles was met with a faded replica of Scott, circa pre-bite. He couldn’t lie. He was feeling a wee bit nostalgic.

“I’m fine,” said Stiles, going for neutral.

“You always say that.”

Scott stared at him, all big eyes and floppy fringe. “Are you though? Fine, I mean? Lydia said she screamed for you.”

“The banshee cried wolf,” quipped Stiles, grabbing for the water, taking a sip. Or he tried to. Most of it spilled down his chin, dribbling onto his t-shirt. “I’ve been told I was inches from meeting the same demise as Donovan. Probably would’ve been karmic fate or something.”

“That’s not funny,” said Scott, voice clipped. Stiles shrugged. It probably wasn’t. In fact, it was frightening as all hell. Stiles dealt with heightened emotions extremely poorly, usually resulting in sarcasm and tasteless jokes.

“So, you’re okay?” Scott still didn’t look convinced. Stiles caught him sniffing the air, probably trying to scent any major injuries.

“Mostly. Bruises and cuts. A slight concussion. Possibly some broken ribs. Obviously, I’m not fine. But I will be.” He snickered. “Or as fine as we can get, I guess.”

They didn’t say anything after that. Scott remained seated without indicating he would be leaving. Stiles managed a another few sips of water and almost drifted off to sleep again. He was brought back when Scott finally spoke.

“I’m sorry for being a dick lately.”

The statement hung in the air, unanswered. For once, Stiles resisted making an easy joke like “I’m always a dick, welcome to the club.” It would’ve cleared the air, but it wouldn’t have fixed the issue between them. It would let Scott off the hook, and Stiles wasn’t entirely sure he was ready to do that. Not unless he felt sure they had aired out things properly. Scott probably had issues with him as well. It was only to be expected. Stiles wasn’t perfect by any standards.

“I -.”

Scott stopped, leaned his head back onto the headrest and sighed deeply. Stiles waited. He knew Scott sometimes struggled to find the right words. He could wait.

“I know I’ve said this before, but I think something inside me just snapped after the thing with the Beast. It’s been one messed up thing after the other, more or less overlapping these last few years, and I’ve tried my best to roll with the punches and stay positive.”

He laughed mirthlessly, running a hand through his hair. “I never wanted any of this. Or - that’s not even true.” Scott shook his head. “I loved the power it gave me, becoming a werewolf. I just - I hated the responsibility. The restraints and rules that came with it, all of which I associated with Derek. He became my punching bag, the one I would blame everything on. That wasn’t fair.”

“No, it wasn’t,” agreed Stiles. There was no reason to sugarcoat things, yet he sensed yelling and cursing wouldn’t do much good.

“I’m sorry.” Scott looked small, eyes suspiciously shiny.

“Sorry for what?”

He had to ask. He had to know.

“Overlooking you. Ignoring your input. I - I honestly didn’t see that until this whole thing with Donovan happened and you snapped at me. I needed that. I hated it,” he added, voice raw. “It was hard as hell getting that thrown in my face, and I needed some time to process it. Embarrassingly much time even. I just - I just hope it’s not too late.”

“It’s not.”

“Really?”

Scott suddenly looked thirteen years old again, being presented with a new skateboard for his birthday.

“Really,” Stiles confirmed. “I’m not perfect. You’re not perfect. We’ll never be perfect. I still want you as my friend. But I think we should agree to tell each other straight when we’re being huge douches from now on.”

“I’ll try.” Scott was smiling broadly, some of the tension gone from his shoulders. “I’ll probably mess it up again, though.”

“Better messy than nothing at all, bro.”

They grinned stupidly at each other for a few more moments. This was good. Stiles felt warm and happy. This was - actually, it felt like a weight off his back. A weight he’d sort of grown accustomed to, but felt good now that it was gone. Liberating in a way. There was still stuff to deal with, though.

“How are you?” he asked pointedly. “How are you really, Scott? I appreciate that you’ve reflected on this and that we’ve cleared the air. But this is old stuff. You’ve been acting off ever since the thing with All - you know, the beast. Some days you’re fine. Other days you’re withdrawn, moody or just plain zones out. At your worst you’re a huge dick. I’m worried. We’re all worried.”

For a split second Stiles wondered if he should mention the black swirls he sometimes noticed in Scott’s eyes. He decided against it. He still wasn’t entirely convinced he hadn’t imagined the whole thing. Scott was troubled enough without adding possibly baseless theories to the mix.

“I -.” Scott seemed caught off guard. “I don’t know. I feel fine, which is why I’ve been so testy when you all keep asking me this. I guess I feel a bit sad sometimes, but I think that’s to be expected. You said so yourself, grieving takes time, and I guess I zone out and stuff. I dunno. I don’t really remember it like you describe, so…”

He shrugged and picked at hem of his shirt.

“Dude, if you don’t remember stuff, that’s cause for concern. Take it from someone with vast and unwanted experience.”

Okay, so perhaps he should mention it after all?

“I’ll talk to Deaton. Maybe he has some advice.”

Stiles bit his lip not to curse loudly. The topic of Deaton was a sore subject even on good days. He needed to thread lightly.

“Sure. Perhaps give Morrell a go as well? She really wants to help you, if you allow her. She’s a bit odd, but she’s actually helped me a lot. More than I ever expected.”

Scott’s mouth was drawn in a tight line. “Perhaps,” he said in a clipped tone.

“You should come with me next time I go see her. Then you can see that she’s not the villain you’ve cast her as in your lifetime movie.”

Scott looked pensive, then shrugged noncommittally. “Yeah, I might do that.”

It wasn’t much, but somehow it still felt like they’d just moved mountains.

 

 

***

 

 

  
The next few days were hazy. The broken ribs turned out to be the worst culprits. At first Stiles just felt sore and bruised, but on the second night he started having trouble breathing while lying down. He ended up propped up with a multitude of pillows, and still even the slightest movement hurt like a bitch. Derek would pop by every now and then to take some of the pain away, but even though Stiles begged, he refused to numb it entirely.

“The pain is the body’s way of telling you to rest,” he admonished. “If I take it all, you’ll just end up skipping all over the room and make it worse.”

“You’re one to talk,” Stiles had muttered darkly. “You heal in a matter of seconds.”

“Doesn’t mean I don’t know what pain is and why it’s useful,” Derek replied firmly. It might be his imagination but he thought he saw his dad high-five Derek on his way out one night. Those two in cahoots really wasn’t a good thing.

Confined to his bed, Stiles was pretty much reliant on others for information, which was - frustrating. For someone used to be the one to provide the information, taking a step back mentally hurt.

The watch on the Nemeton continued. Malia reported back that she’d come across the smell of coyote again, but had lost the trail after a while, this time miles away from Deaton’s clinic. Stiles had a slight fit when she mentioned that. Evidently, Malia had forgotten to supply him with key information about the last time she picked up the trail. He spent an hour questioning her extensively, but he felt none the wiser after.

Liam and Mason were on Theo duty, but by now Stiles had pretty much ruled him out entirely. With the Dread Doctors gone, Theo wasn’t really a player nor someone who could contribute. He was basically just a wrench in the machinery, pun sort of intended.

Scott surprised them all by going to talk to Morrell of his own volition. Stiles was itching to get a report, but knew neither party were obligated to say anything. He knew better than to ask. Hopefully, Scott would share when he was ready. In addition, possibly in an effort to really show that he wanted to get back in Stiles’ good graces, Scott threw himself wholeheartedly into watching the Nemeton. Usually together with Kira, but most nights he spent there alone. Sometimes Parrish would appear as well, though guided by GPS and not his Hellhoundy vibes, which they all interpreted to be a good thing.

Lydia would text every now and then, but spent most of her time doing research on everything from thermodynamics to obscure mythology, hoping to find some sort of hint as to how the Nemeton worked, and what could be gained by messing with it. The darach had done something similar, so clearly they were missing some central part to the puzzle.

Thankfully there was one thing Stiles could do, and that even without straining himself noticeably, namely keep up the connection to the Nemeton. All it took was some concentration and a little bit of peace and quiet. Derek and his dad were both reluctant, but had little choice but allowed it. They couldn’t really stop him even if they wanted to. Or, they could, but it would include heavy drugging, or a medical induced coma. Thankfully, they weren’t that desperate.

Every time Stiles woke, he would reach out and feel for the telluric currents and the hum of energy he could sense vibrating through invisible strings all around him. Since his crash, there was something new to it. Something that hadn’t been there before. It was subtle, but still noticeable, and if he had to describe it, Stiles would say it felt like a scar. Like a flesh wound scabbed over. It didn’t really change things much, and nothing felt broken. It wasn’t malignant or “bad”. Just different.

Also, no new burns, which was a nice change of pace.

Even though the Nemeton seemed quiet, Scott was coming around, and Theo seemed to have crawled back under whatever rock he came from, Stiles couldn’t shake the feeling that something was - well, off. Clearly, he wasn’t the only. Malia was antsier than usual, turning up at all hours of the day, even when she should be in school. She was always vague about the why of her visits, and no amount of gentle prying or flat out demands had helped. In the end, Stiles simply had to let it go and pray it would spill out of her eventually.

He suspected it had something to do with the Dread Doctors and the Nemeton in some shape or form. Parrish called to inform him he’d found her wandering aimlessly around the vicinity of the tree stump more than once. Stiles suspected it was connected to the memories Malia had uncovered when reading the Dread Doctors book, and therefore let it be. He knew firsthand how that could mess with your mind. Malia probably just needed some time and space.

By day four, Stiles was allowed up and to the bathroom without assistance, which was a huge step. He did not enjoy bathroom breaks with his dad. Being almost 18 and having his dad help wipe his butt was just plain wrong. Derek was more than willing to help as well, but Stiles had vetoed that option categorically. He had no problem letting Derek near his dick and his butt, but drew the line firmly at pee and poop. He was kinky, but there were some hard limits he was not willing to cross.

He shuffled back into to his room, mimicking the gait of a arthritis-ridden geriatric, he was met by a chilly breeze. His dad was at work, and Derek off doing a perimeter sweep. Which meant Stiles was very much alone in the house. And yet - not.

A prickly sensation, the kind that alerted you to lurkers and people staring at you - that feeling washed over him. Stiles stopped, frozen to the spot, and strained his ears. He could hear a car honking outside. Someone was mowing the lawn a few houses down the street. The clock was ticking down in the kitchen… And was that… Footsteps?

Stiles’ breath hitched when he heard the unmistakable sound of the fridge being opened.

“Dad?” he called out, mentally slapping himself. He’d just broken the first rule of Horror movies everywhere: do not alert potentially violent burglars of your presence. It was reckless and stupid. Unless Derek was back already?

The sound of glass breaking pretty much told him it wasn’t his dad. Or Derek. Shit.

“Whoever the fuck you are, you better get out instantly!” he yelled, voice breaking slightly. “I’m calling the sheriff - who is my dad by the way. And I have a gun!”

Totally not true. Stiles had a bat and a handful of mountain ash. The latter would do him no favors if the perpetrator was human.

It evidently did the trick, though. Stiles heard the front door open and close with a thud. He waddled over to the window and peered outside, hoping to catch a glimpse of the trespasser. All he saw was a flowery skirt and long, brown hair disappearing around the garage. Something about it felt achingly familiar, but the only one he knew to wear floral patterns was Lydia, but she hadn’t donned a skirt that long the entire time he’d known her.

“Odd,” he mused and limped back to his bed. “As if this town wasn’t batshit crazy enough as it is, I have to worry about breaking-ins as well?”

Stiles contemplated calling it in, but decided to wait until his dad got back. They had little of value downstairs anyway, and it didn’t look as if she’d taken off with the flat screen, which meant they were golden.

He nestled under his duvet, trying to find a comfortable position. The ribs felt better, thankfully. Much better actually. Mostly he was down to painful muscles and bruises, but he figured he’d be good to go, perhaps even as soon as tomorrow. He hoped to convince nurse Ratched and Annie Wilkes later. He wasn’t too optimistic. Somehow, Derek and his dad were stricter than McGonagall when it came to his health.

“What the crap?”

Stiles winced as something sharp dug into his lower back. He groped around awkwardly and came back with something square and hard that most definitely had not been in his bed when he left for the bathroom. Had the mysterious woman been up here? The thought unnerved him. Yet, it didn’t seem plausible. She hadn’t exactly tried to hide her movements downstairs. Leaving this here in the time he’d been to the bathroom, required stealth.

Stiles glances at the window, suddenly aware of one crucial detail. It was open. The curtains billowed softly in the afternoon breeze. That window had been shut before. In fact, Derek had closed it before he left, muttering about drafts and infections.

“What the fuck is going on,” he muttered groping for his phone. “What’s with supernatural creepers and my bedroom window?”

Usually it was Derek. For a while Malia. This time it wasn’t Derek. A quick text confirmed that it wasn’t Malia either. She was stuck in History and hating it as usual. Derek could probably scent who it was, though, or at the very least follow him or her.

He’d just hit dial when something huge barreled into his room through the aforementioned window. Stiles cried out in horror, clutching the duvet to his chest like a 1900 century damsel in distress.

“What the fuck?” he yelled, heart threatening to punch its way out of his chest. He’d recognized the intruder, but the scare still lingered.

“Derek! You fucker! What’s with the dramatic entrance? I thought I’d trained you to use the door like a normal person?”

Stiles glared at his boyfriend, who was still hunched over on all fours after completing one of those stupid tumbles all werewolves seemed prone to.

“Derek?”

No answer. Just the sound of Derek’s elevated breathing. If he didn’t know better Stiles would say he seemed scared. Petrified even.

“Okay, now I’m getting worried. This has been a very weird day, with strangers lurking in my kitchen and someone leaving weird presents on my pillow. I don’t need you to lose your marbles as well.” He glanced down at the object in his hand. “Seriously, who leaves season 3 of Fringe anonymously? That’s just rude. At least have the decency to start with season 1.”

Derek slowly rose, shuffling towards the bed in a trance like state. Stiles inched closer to the wall, leaving room on the bed. Derek didn’t lie down like he expected, though. Instead, he sank down on matress, head in his hands, muttering under his breath. Stiles reached out, drawing calming circles on his back.

“Talk to me, please. I haven’t seen you this upset since - well, since Boyd died, I think. Please, god. Don’t tell me someone’s died!”

Derek shook his head. Stiles sighed in relief.

“You swear,” he asked, needing to be reassured. “No one died?”

“No one died,” Derek repeated, voice raw and hollow in a way that still didn’t bode well. “I’m just -.” He laughed almost hysterically, shaking his head back and forth. “I’m starting to wonder if it’s the opposite. If someone has come back to life.”

He turned to look Stiles straight in the eye, face haunted and drawn.

“What if you weren’t seeing things, Stiles? What if you did in fact see your mom that night you crashed your car?”

“But, that’s not possible.” Stiles shook his head. “She’s been dead for years. It makes no sense for her to really be here. It has to be some sort of shifter.”

Derek closed his eyes and took a deep breath, seemingly in an effort to calm himself.

“I would agree with you one hundred percent,” he said shakily, “if it weren’t for the fact that I just saw my mom.”

Stiles gaped.

“Your mom? Talia Hale?”

Derek nodded.

“What? Where? When?”

“Not far from where our house used to be before it was torn down. I was out, doing a perimeter sweep and there she was.”

“Derek - “, began Stiles wearily. He recognized the signs. The spark of hope. The willingness to suspend logic at all cost if it meant it could be true. It as a futile endeavor, though.

“I know what you’re going to say,” Derek interrupted, grabbing Stiles’ had and squeezing it. “But it’s not a shifter, Stiles. Not only did it look like her, it also -.” His breath hitched, tears welling in his eyes. “It smelled like her, too. You can’t fake that! You can’t fake pack scents!”

“Holy shit!”

If, and Stiles was still regarding this as a very big if, Derek had really seen his mother… Could it be? Could Stiles have -?.

A flash of recognition assaulted his mind. With a whimper he crawled out of bed, crawled across the room, pulling books, boardgames, old essays and knickknacks out of the bookshelf by the door.

“What are you doing?”

Derek was suddenly next to him, staring at Stiles in confusion. Stiles didn’t answer, just continued his frantic search. Finally, he found was he was looking for. An old leather-bound photo album he hadn’t had the stomach to look at for years. The spine creaked as he opened it. Muttering under his breath he began turning the pages, scanning every picture for one specific detail.

“Oh my god!”

Stiles dumped down on the floor, the album open on his lap. Now tears were streaming down his face as well. Salty rivers, dripping off his nose and chin, creeping into his mouth. He didn’t notice or care.

“She was here,” he finally croaked out. Derek had sat down behind him, engulfing him in his embrace, his mouth plastered to Stiles’ neck. Giving comfort as much as receiving it.

He pointed at a somewhat faded Polaroid of his mother, a much younger Stiles on her lap, wearing the very same floral skirt he’d just seen disappear behind their garage not ten minutes ago.

“She was in the kitchen earlier. Mom was here.”

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm at that point where I just want this fic done and posted, so if you come across a myriad of horrible grammar etc, you'll know why. Sorry.


	18. Chapter 18

For the longest time Derek and Stiles sat in the middle of the floor, surrounded by the mess Stiles had made earlier, simply clutching each other tightly, crying freely. Nothing was said. Nothing needed to be said. What could be said?

Loss. This was one of the things that had always bonded them, but never really spoken aloud. When Peter and Cora had explained that losing part of your pack felt like losing a limb, Stiles had know exactly what that meant. Derek and he both hid their grief and pain. Where other people wore it on their sleeves with open mourning, depression, or an excess need to talk about it, they did the opposite. Stiles camouflaged it behind a wall of sarcasm and witticisms, Derek behind a mask of gloom and anger. To outsiders they appeared to be polar opposites, but at the core they were the same. Two boys emotionally scared by the loss of close family. A loss they secretly felt was their fault.

This felt, bizarrely, like a second chance.

Stiles’ mind was reeling. The concept was absurd. People just didn’t come back to life after years and years of being dead. He might be surrounded by werewolves, emissaries and the occasional kanima, but raising the dead was a whole other level of wacky that not even he could wrap his head around. Had it only been him, though. If it had just been Stiles seeing his mom, then he’d been inclined to chalk it up magical trickery or, perhaps even more likely, Frontotemporal Dementia. Hallucinations were part of that diagnosis, after all.

Now however, things had changed dramatically. Now, with Derek confirming that Stiles wasn’t losing his mind again, things had suddenly and inexplicably become real.

“What happened?” he finally managed to croak out, voice thick and raspy. Derek didn’t respond right away. Stiles wasn’t even sure if he’d heard him, he seemed so lost in thought.

“What do you mean?” he finally replied, voice barely above a whisper.

“With your mom? What happened when you met her?”

Stiles grabbed for Derek’s hand, pulling into his lap, keeping him from fleeing.

“I - I panicked.”

“I can relate. At least you didn’t crash your car.”

“I probably would’ve if I’d been driving,” Derek admitted. “I - at first I didn’t recognize her. That’s perhaps the worst part.” He sounded gutted. “I mean - it was my mom! How could I not -.”

He trailed off. Stiles laced their fingers together. Held on even more tightly.

“Don’t beat yourself up over that. It’s normal. I mean, sometimes when I think of my mom, I can only pull up this somewhat distorted mental image of her. Like she’s partially hidden in a cloud of smoke, or fog. I always feel bad about it, but I don’t think that’s the most important thing anyway. To have perfect recollection of their physical appearance, I mean. That’s not what I miss about her. I miss her presence, not her face. Besides,” he added when he sensed that Derek wasn’t really responding favorably to his words, “your mom died years ago. Coming across her in the flesh out in the woods - it’s the last person you expected to see. How can you blame yourself for not catching up to that in like 0.1 seconds.”

“I guess,” muttered Derek. “She looked confused,” he added. “I could feel it coming off her. Frustration. Confusion. Worry.”

“She was probably looking for the house. For you.”

Derek nodded.

“She asked me about the house. I don’t think she realized who I was at first.”

“She’s never seen you all grown up.” Stiles smirked. “I’ve met baby-faced teenage you. You were adorable and hot back then too, but you’ve leveled up since then. Evolved, like a freaking Pokemon.”

“You say the sweetest things,” said Derek dryly. Stiles shrugged.

“Did she scent you?”

Derek nodded. “Yeah. She said my name. I fled in panic.”

“I’m no better,” said Stiles with a sigh. “First I almost ran her over with her own car. Today, I chased her out of her house under threat of a gun.”

“You have a gun?” Derek looked suddenly traumatized. Stiles scoffed.

“Course I haven’t! I have a bat and a penchant for running my mouth in scary situations. It did the trick though. Yay me.”

They looked at each other, then burst out laughing. More as a vent for all the pent up emotions, than anything else. It felt good, regardless.

“We’re a pair of idiots,” said Stiles fondly. “What do we do now?”

Derek shrugged. “I have no clue. Shouldn’t we talk to your dad. Inform him?”

Stiles’ eyes bugged before he went on to do a very life-like bubble-head impression.

“Are you mental? It will break him? We can’t just waltz into the station and ask him to put out an APB for his late wife and a confirmed burn victim. We should find them first. Make absolutely sure it’s them, and not some sort of magical construct. Or a Tulpa.”

“It’s her. I’m sure of it.” Derek sounded adamant.

“I hope you’re right.” Stiles smiled tightly. “Let’s just make absolutely sure before we set off all the fireworks and confetti. Please.”

Derek nodded. “Now what?”

“Now,” said Stiles, getting gingerly to his feet, and holding out a hand for Derek to do the same. “Now, we bring in the cavalry.”

 

 

**

 

 

The cavalry was better known as Lydia Martin.

“We’re going to Lydia’s house,” Stiles had announced.

“But your injuries -”

Stiles had rammed a stern finger across Derek’s lips, shushing him.

“Stop it, I’m bruised, not maimed or paralyzed. Besides, our dead mothers just walked into town - you try to stop me from investigating that, I dare you.”

“Lydia has a car, she can come here.”

God, Derek was so sensible sometimes! No wonder he got along so well with his dad.

“My presumed dead mom rooted around in our fridge not 30 minutes ago. I’m freaked and I need a change of venue. We’re going, and that’s that!”

That had actually been that. Derek had relented, probably still too shaken from his own traumatic experience to muster up much argument. Fifteen minutes later they stood outside Lydia’s house, Stiles clasping a crutch and Derek clasping Stiles’ hand, like he was his crutch. Stiles found he didn’t mind at all. It was nice, being needed. Being someone Derek leaned on, emotionally speaking.

Thank the lord Lydia opened the door and not her mother. Stiles had actually forgotten all about the awkward candlelit dinner and the subsequent trapping of Natalie Martin in her own kitchen. He’d even forgotten to ask Lydia about the aftermath. Clearly, she hadn’t suffered noteworthy.

“Well, this doesn’t bode well.”

Lydia was, as usual, straight to the point, and not very tactful about it. She was wearing sweatpants and a tank top and still looked ready to rock America’s Top Model at the drop of a hat if the situation called for it. Not that Stiles expected to find Tyra Banks knocking on anyone’s door in Beacon Hills, but if she did come a-knocking at the Martins, she’d find a gem and then some.

And he was mentally ranting again. It had been a trying day, okay. He felt he was somewhat excused.

Lydia gestured for them to enter, one eyebrow arched high. Stiles noticed she had a pencil perched through her messy bun and another tucked behind her ear. Rewind two years, and he’d be knee-deep in sexy librarian fantasies right about now. Yeah, how the tides had turned.

She lead the way into the living room where it looked like a small tornado of books had hit hard. The air smelled like coffee and popcorn. Lydia’s tiny dog yapped halfheartedly when they entered, but quickly dropped it when Derek flashed his eyes.

“Handy,” said Lydia appreciatively. “She’s been whining for about an hour, probably wanting a walk. I’ve just been too busy to indulge her.”

“Have you found anything?” asked Stiles, eying a yellowish parchment with swirly writing. He couldn’t make heads or tails of it. Lydia snatched it away, then leaned against the dining room table, arms crossed.

“Nothing of interests. Now, why don’t you enlighten me to why you’re here? I know he wouldn’t let you out of the house unless it was incredibly important.”

“He can hear you,” mumbled Derek.

“She knows,” countered Lydia mockingly. “Spill, please.”

Stiles stared at Derek. Derek stared right back. The words seemed stuck in his throat, like he was choking on them. Derek’s nose twitched nervously. Lydia rolled her eyes and actually fished out a nail file from - Stiles had no idea where, and began working on her nails, mostly likely to make a point. She wasn’t exactly subtle.

When the dam finally broke, everything spilled out of Stiles in a rush of garbled words and manic gestures. The nail file dropped out of Lydia’s limp hands and hit the floor, where it lied, forgotten.

 

  
*

 

“Holy crap!”

It was a seldom sight to see Lydia Martin tongue-tied, and shell-shocked. In fact, Stiles thought he’d only seen it once before, and that was a few weeks ago when The Beast had revealed the reanimated body of Allison. Speaking of Allison, Stiles suspected he might know what Lydia was thinking right now.

If Talia Hale and Claudia Stilinski were wandering around town, was Allison Argent out there, too?

“Holy - crap!”

She’d dumped down onto a dining room chair, slack-jawed and bug-eyed. Stiles’ ribs were hurting again, so he’d slumped down onto the sofa, Derek in tow. Now they were pretty much just sitting there, staring at each other.

“Yeah, basically, crap. The holy kind,” he said uselessly.

“I - .” Lydia stopped, cocked her head, then shook it, dumbfounded. “I - I really can’t wrap my head around it,” she said eventually. “It makes no sense. None.”

“We know. And still - true. Probably anyway. Derek seems to believe you can’t fake scents. Have you read anything about that?”

Lydia nodded mechanically. “Scents? Oh, yeah. I’ve read about it. Derek’s right. It’s extremely hard to fake. It involves pheromones, and while you might be able to dupe distant connections, close family or pack will not be fooled. You’re sure it was your mother?” she asked for the seventh time. Derek nodded again, lips pressed together in a firm line. Stiles wasn’t sure it was to prevent snapping at Lydia, or to keep his feelings in check. He suspected a little bit of both.

“Is this what the blood on the Nemeton, and the burns and shit are all about?” asked Stiles.

He was beyond confused. Who’d want to raise the dead, and for what reason? Not that he was complaining. He’d fantasized of what life with his mom would be like. Being offered the chance of actually finding out - yeah, that was like a dream come true. Not a nightmare. So why had the Nemeton been calling out to him, warning him of danger?

“Must be,” said Lydia. She was back to perusing her numerous books. Judging by the force she was leafing through them, she wasn’t finding any answers, and felt personally offended by it. “It’s not totally unheard of after all. Theo brought back Haley and the other chimeras by the Nemeton.”

“Using the Dread Doctors nasty concoction,” Stiles supplied. “Sure, they used the powers from the currents to make that shit, so it definitely could be related. But you’re forgetting that the bodies were fresh and available for Theo to play freaky doctor. Our moms have been dead for years! Also, the doctors are long gone. Malia saw blood on the Nemeton, not yellowish goo.”

“I know, I didn’t say it was logical, alright,” snapped Lydia, voice clipped. “It’s still a connection. For all we know, the doctors used blood, too. Spilling it on the Nemeton might enhance the effect somehow. What do you think, Derek?”

Derek startled when spoken to. He’d stayed silent the entire visit, and didn’t look like he was ready to be particularly communicative anytime soon.

“I think we should find our moms and ask them.”

It was surprisingly good advice. Stiles and Lydia looked at each other, shrugged, then sprang into action. Or rather, Lydia did. Stiles had more than enough with getting to his feet without keeling over.

“We should take my car,” said Lydia matter-of-factly. “I’ll be driving, obviously. You two look like death warmed over. To be honest, I’m just thankful you didn't have another accident. I’m not gonna scream for you again, Stiles. I refuse to lose another friend!”

She grabbed a bag off the floor and began stuffing it with books, her valet, phone, and a crazy amount of chewing gum. Stiles picked up a packet, eyebrow arched.

“Don’t judge,” she snapped, swiping them out of his limp grasp. “It helps me concentrate.”

The doorbell rang before Stiles could utter another word. Lydia cursed.

“Great, what now?”

She stomped out into the hall, feet clicking angrily despite wearing sneakers. Stiles heard the door open, then indistinct mumbling. Lydia returned a few seconds later, clutching a package wrapped inexpertly in brown paper. She tore into it, eyes suspicious. When the content was revealed, they all simply stared at it for a long time.

“Well,” said Stiles eventually. “At least you got season 1. I found season 3 in my bed earlier today. I think someone’s trying to tell us something. It was placed there while I was in the bathroom. And no,” he added when Derek opened his mouth. “It wasn’t my mom. I doubt she climbed in my window. You closed it remember. It was open when I found it. Also, how would she even think to buy us seasons of a TV show about fringe-science, when she died long before it premiered?”

“It’s part of a puzzle,” muttered Lydia, grabbing the bag she’d just filled, emptying the content back out onto the floor. She attacked the pile like a starving crow, scattering debris in all directions. A few selected items made their way to the table, season 1 of Fringe included.

"Obviously," said Stiles tiredly. "My head hurts just thinking about this. The drawback of being concussed and getting the shock of a lifetime, I guess."

“Oh my god,” she breathed in awe, ignoring Stiles' ramblings. She was staring down on the DVD and a couple of books. Stiles limped over, Derek in tow. After staring at the collection for a few moments he still failed to see anything awe-worthy about it.

“I don’t get it,” he said turning to Derek. “Do you get it?” Derek shook his head.

“We don’t get it,” he announced to Lydia, who was now hunched over making frantic notes.

“It all makes sense now,” she mumbled, turning one of the books over and reading the synopsis.

“Can you give us the cliff notes, please,” asked Stiles, throwing his hands up and regretting it profoundly, when all it did was cause him pain. Lydia didn’t appear to have heard him, because she barreled on without pause.

“Remember that book you found in your backpack when you’d set up the schedule to watch the Nemeton?”

Stiles nodded reluctantly.

“Vaguely. Something about a contortionist, right?.”

“Contor-” Lydia rolled her eyes. “Close, but not quite. “ _The Man Who Folded Himself_ ” by David Gerrold. You’re being entirely too literal, Stiles. It’s more about bending time and space, not limbs. Didn’t I tell you about this?”

“You said it was about time travel or something?”

Stiles honestly hadn’t paid all that much attention. Lydia seemed pleased enough. So, yeah. Nice save.

“Yes, exactly! Time paradoxes end up creating multiple universes. Also,  remember this one?”

She picked up another book. Stiles recognized it immediately.

“Yes! You found that in your bag at dinner after I locked your mom in the kitchen to escape the Candlelit Dinner from Hell - capitalized, of course. It was bad,” he added conspiratorially to Derek, who he suddenly realized never really got all the details about that.

“How did it go with your mom by the way -” Stiles stopped, mimed locking his mouth and throwing away the key, when Lydia pinned him with her steeliest glare.

“This is the first book in the Wheel of Time series,” she said, giving off a very McGonagall vibe. Stiles pursed his lips even firmer together, irrationally scared of losing house points.

“Basically its a series about Mirror Worlds, which represent what could have been had various events in history happened in different ways. Simply put, of course.”

An uncomfortable sensation was brewing at the back of Stiles’ mind. It quickly spread to his gut as the possible ramifications of what Lydia was suggesting started to become clear to him.

“I found another one,” he said breathlessly. “I stepped on it in my room. I remember thinking it was probably yours,” he added, looking at Derek.

“Do you remember the title?”

Stiles scrunched his nose, scanning his mind. “Something like “ _Charisma_ ”, I think. I’m not sure.”

Lydia tapped out a search on her phone, and let out a triumphant “hah!” not long after.

“As suspected,” she said smugly, showing Stiles and Derek the what she’d found online. “In that novel, the protagonist travels among the alternate timelines, again and again meeting the same girl and falling in love with her – only to have her get killed again and again, in all kinds of accidents.”

“Oh my god! OH MY GOD! This -", Stiles gestured wildly at the assorted fiction before them, "this, whoa! Mind blown! This is officially creeping me out.”

Derek still looked a bit confused. Then again, he'd seemed a bit out of sorts ever since his run-in with his mom. 

“It sounds as if you're suggesting time travel," he said, eyes wide. "Please tell me it's not time travel.”

"It's not time travel," Stiles and Lydia replied in perfect unison. Derek looked from one to the other, a small smile on his face despite the absurdity of the situation. “You two work well together,” he commented.

“We do,” confirmed Lydia. Stiles was blown away by the warmth in her voice.

“Clearly, whoever is trying to tip us, thinks so, too. No one else has gotten any strange books lately as far as I can tell.” Stiles looked pensive. “Which means whoever our strange benefactor is - terrible choice of word, I take it back - let’s instead go with... _generous tipper?_  Anyway, whoever it is, he or she seems to know us pretty well. Things like this would’ve gone unnoticed with Scott.”

“Let’s just focus on the why first,” said Lydia. “Let’s do the how later.”

“Do the “Catch-Derek-up first, please. If it's not Time Turners or Delorians, then what's going on?”

“Okay, so today we’ve gotten two seasons of Fringe. Have you watched it?”

Derek glared. “I’ve had Netflix for about a month, what do you think?”

“I’m gonna go with a no on that one,” said Stiles, gesturing for Lydia to do the honors.

“Okay, so Fringe is basically about two parallel worlds on a collision course. There are numerous parallel universes, all co-existing separately from each other. Then, one scientist from our world finds a way to spy in on the other world, in a desperate attempt to find a cure for his dying son. He doesn’t succeed. He still continues to watch the other world where his alter-ego fails to notice that he’s in fact discovered a cure. In a mad attempt to save the other boy, the spitting image of his dead son, he crosses over and brings him back. He saves him and raises him as his own. But by doing so, he’s created an imbalance. The show is basically about correcting that.”

“He gets it now.”

Stiles had watched Derek’s face the entire time Lydia was talking. Had seen the exact moment the puzzle pieces had slotted into place. He grabbed his hand and squeezed tightly. What Derek was feeling now - Stiles knew it well. The hope that had blossomed mere hours ago, was now crushed underfoot.

“Shit,” said Stiles. It summed things up nicely.

“Mind-blowing shit,” supplied Lydia. She sounded halfway between elation and horror.

They were brought out of their reverie by the front door slamming shut. Derek was nowhere to be found. Stiles found him halfway down the path, walking as if his pants were on fire.

“Hey, where you going?”

Derek stopped abruptly. Stiles could tell even from this distance that he was tense and angry. He couldn’t really fault him. He turned slowly, face oddly, disturbingly, blank.

“If I understood you two correctly, we’ve somehow opened up a portal to a bizzaro world. I’d like to find and detain the people wandering around here, possibly causing major imbalances. That includes our bizzaro moms.”

“Any idea where to start” asked Stiles practically, limping down to catch up. Movement behind him told him Lydia was following. Derek appeared deep in thought, forehead creased in concentration.

“I keep trying to imagine what I’d do if it was me. If I suddenly found myself stuck in a place that on the surface looked like home, but where some of the important details were off. Where would I go? What would I do?”

“I know what I’d do,” said Lydia, unlocking her car with a soft beep. “I’d seek out the safe, the familiar. Family. Home.”

Stiles and Derek both nodded at her suggestions. It was the logical answer. Familiarity. Safety. It’s what anyone seeks in strange situations.

“My mom is most likely still in the Preserve. It’s Hale land, and miles and miles of it. We have a few special family bonding spots. She might look to them.”

“Makes sense,” said Lydia. “Do you want me or someone else to come with you? Even if it’s not really your mom, I imagine it will be difficult still.”

Derek shook his head. “Thanks, but I think it’ll be better to go alone. She might spook or react badly if she feels ambushed.” He looked to Stiles. “What about you? Where would your mom go?”

Stiles was wringing his hands, working through what little he remembered about favorite spots and the like.

“I think I was too young when she died to really have noticed what places she liked and not. All I can think of is home, her Jeep and dad. For an 8 year old that’s basically your entire world.”

Another set of puzzle pieces suddenly slotted into place, creating a disturbing revelation.

“Crap! She’s already sought our home - I’m sure she was in our kitchen earlier today, and when I crashed the Jeep she was actually stepping into the road, waving it down. It used to be hers, she probably recognized it. Which means…”

The world stopped spinning. Stock markets collapsed, cities crumpled into dust, and locus fell from the sky. Or at least, that’s what it felt like in the moment Stiles realized one crucial, and scary fact.

“She’s gone to find my dad! She’s headed for the Sheriff’s station!”

 

 

 

***

 

 

Stiles more fell than ran into the Sheriff’s station. He bumped his hip painfully into the reception desk when he totally misjudged the angle, all at a speed that defied logic, considering his many injuries. He vaguely registered the reception officer crying out in indignation as papers scattered in every direction. Still, he didn’t slow down to either help or apologize. Instead, he burst through the swinging doors and collided painfully with a firm body. Upon further inspection it turned out to be Parrish.

“Ooomph! Oh, thank god, Stiles! I was just about to call you.”

Parrish looked frazzled and confused in equal measures. A boulder-sized lump crash-landed in the pit of Stiles’ stomach. He had a very bad feeling about this. _Very bad_.

“Where’s my dad?” he wheezed out, craning his neck to look over Parrish’ shoulder towards his dad’s office. Damn, Parrish was so freaking tall! And broad.

“About that,” began Parrish hesitantly, casting furtive looks around the corridor. “I dunno how to break this to you but…” He wiped his forehead nervously. “I think perhaps the Sheriff is having some sort of meltdown. This woman walked in demanding to see him, only she obviously gave a fake name at the front desk. It caused quite a stir. The nerve of her.” He shook his head. “So, I detained her and ran her prints. Sadly, it looks as if we’re having another of those odd computer glitches. Only - ”

“Only, she’s supposedly dead,” finished Stiles impatiently, pushing Parrish out of the way. His heart was beating so fucking hard! God, she was here! It had to be her. Or not really her exactly. Stiles knew it wasn’t his mom. And yet, she would look like her… He wasn’t really ready for that. How could he be?

“You okay?”

Lydia had caught up with him. She grabbed his hand, clutching it reassuringly. Stiles dimly noted Parrish’s facial expression souring somewhat.

“No,” he answered truthfully. He hadn’t been okay since that fateful fall night when Claudia Stilinski had succumbed to her illness and died, a eight year old Stiles clutching her hand, and crying silently onto the hospital sheets.

“But whatever I’m feeling, my dad will have it even worse. Come on, I think she’s already here.”

He pushed open the door to the outer bullpen usually reserved for booking perps and taking statements. A sense of deja vu fell over him and he caught sight of his dad. He was staring shell-shocked from the woman sitting primly on the same bench de-aged Derek had been occupying the year before, and to the computer screen next to him. On the screen Stiles caught sight of his mom’s records, the words “deceased” flashing across the screen in bold, red letters.

The woman on the bench however, was very much alive. Also, the spitting image of his mom, just as Stiles remembered her. It was like a punch to the gut, leaving him breathless and woozy. Sure, her hair was graying slightly, and she had a few more lines on her face. But the mischievous eyes, the crooked half smile, the rosy cheeks. Those details were still the same.

“Dad!” he exclaimed breathlessly, purposefully ignoring Other!Claudia, who had lit up at the sight of him. He skidded to a halt in the middle of the room, like a referee arriving slightly too late to a cage fight.

“I can explain!”

The Sheriff turned towards him, face drawn and pale, arms crossed and eyebrows raised. “Really?” he said. Stiles noticed his voice wobbled slightly. 

“Well, no,” he admitted sheepishly. “I can’t really explain the whys and the hows, but basically we’ve got visitors from a parallel universe.”

He did a swooping sort of gesture, much like a magician’s assistant showing the audience just how empty a box is. It failed to attract any kind of cheers or applause.

“Seriously? That is what you’re going with?”

His dad sighed deeply, clearly far from impressed. He rubbed his face tiredly, like a much-tried elementary teacher. “Parallel universes? Given up on time travel already? Pity, I was hoping you'd bring home a Delorian.”

Stiles snorted in indignation.

“Honestly, dad. You were the one to bring up time travel last time, so don’t go trying to pin that on me.”

“We can’t really rule it out entirely, though,” supplied Lydia entirely unhelpfully. The Stilinski men turned towards her in perfect unison, glaring daggers.

“Really, Lydia. That’s not helpful at all,” said Stiles tersely. Lydia rolled her eyes.

“Excuse me for pointing out a factor that, as of yet, isn’t fully explained. But by all means, I’ll keep my mouth shut, no worries.” She took a step back, crossing her arms defensively before addressing the woman, who so far had been mostly ignored.

“Hello, Mrs. Stilinski. Welcome to our world. Pardon the less than courteous greeting.”

The woman snorted and shook her head. “I’d expected nothing less from these two bozos. Nice to see you, Lydia. You’re as brilliant as I’ve come to expect. At least one thing’s recognizable here.”

Lydia beamed. “Well, I do have an IQ of -”

“175. Yes, Stiles used to go on an on about that. He’s quite proud of his girlfriend,” she added with a rueful grin.

Stiles barked out a laugh. Lydia looked borderline queasy. Claudia looked from one to the other, confusion blending into her expression.

“Well, I’d be damned. Now I know I’ve been sucked into a wacky world. I swear Stiles has harbored feelings for you since third grade. Never shuts up about it either. Well, there was that brief time in sophomore year, when he dated that Hale - ”

“Stiles!”

The sheriff’s voice boomed, cutting Claudia off, and causing everyone to turn to him. He was gesturing agitatedly from the computer to Claudia and back again.

“I’m still not sure I’m able to wrap my head around what you’re getting at. This,” he said flatly, pointing towards the spitting image of his late wife, “is some sort of shifter, right? Didn’t you say that Darach character could change their appearance?”

“Yeah, but no.” Stiles shook his head firmly. Too firmly. God, he probably still had a bit of a concussion. “They are who they say they are. No shifters or magic mojo. Derek said he recognized the scent and that you can’t fake that.”

“Scent? Now you’ve lost me completely. Where is Derek, by the way?”

“In the preserve, tracking down his mom,” said Stiles offhandedly. The Sheriff dropped down into the nearest chair, looking as if all the air had gone out of him.

“Talia Hale? He’s out looking for -. For fuck’s sake!”

“Language,” chided Claudia mock-sternly, adding a wink. “And you wonder why your kid curses like a sailor. He doesn’t get it from me, I can tell you that.”

“Damned straight he doesn’t,” the Sheriff deadpanned, ”seeing as you’re dead and buried.”

Claudia quirked an eyebrow. “Well, that explains the lackluster range of food in the fridge, and the horrid decorative pillows. No sane woman would allow that in her house.”

“Hey, I bought those pillows,” said Lydia huffily. Claudia threw her hands up in a very Stiles manner.

“I stand corrected. The Lydia I know is clearly brighter. Or at least has better taste.”

Lydia looked fit to kill.

“Easy,” said Stiles, clasping a hand over Lydia’s mouth, stopping her from spewing out whatever burning insult she had brewing. That would only serve to escalate things further, and in an entirely unwanted and counter-productive direction.

“And you,” he said pointing a threatening finger at his mo-, no, he’d better mentally refer to her as Claudia. “Stop trying to cause a stir. Having you here is difficult as it is. For god’s sake, we’ve been mourning you for near ten years. Seeing a spitting image isn’t exactly easy, alright.”

“Alright,” she said agreeably, allowing Stiles to focus on his dad. He still looked like someone had whacked him over the head with a frying pan. Stiles sighed deeply, gesturing for Lydia to step forward again.

“You better do the explaining,” he said, tiredly. “I’m - I’m gonna just sit down over here.”

Lydia lapsed into a surprisingly easy and stripped-down explanation. The sheriff didn’t exactly look convinced when she was done, but the frown on his forehead had diminished from a ravine to a shallow ditch, so there was that.

“So, where exactly is this “portal”?”

Even if he refrained from making them mid-air, Stiles could still hear the air quotes. Somehow he didn’t blame his dad. The whole concept was outrageous. And that was saying something, seeing as they lived in a town overrun by supernatural creatures.

“Should I be worried someone might stumble across this, and end up in some upside-down variation of this world?” The sheriff suddenly looked horrified. “Dear god, don’t say that’s where all the missing people in this town go?”

“What? NO! We have no indication this has been open for long. We’d have more cases of people from over there coming here as well, wouldn’t we,” said Stiles, feeling oddly like the voice of reason for once. “We haven’t exactly discussed this at length, seeing as we just found out about it, but I think it’s safe to say it’s the Nemeton.”

Lydia nodded. “I agree. That would explain the burns Stiles has gotten, and the blood on it, as well. Clearly, someone’s trying to pry it open somehow. I’m thinking they managed to keep it open just long enough for Claudia and Talia to get through. It coincides with the burn Stiles got, and would also explain why you saw your mom right before the crash.”

“Excuse me, _what_?!!” The sheriff looked gob-smacked. “You didn’t mention that to me!”

Stiles squirmed. “Sorry, didn’t want to worry you. Also, I wasn’t sure if it was real, if my head was playing tricks on me, or if some shifter was to blame. In my defense, I did have a concussion!”

The sheriff, still looking thunderous, turned towards Claudia, who was following the discussion with rapt attention.

“You,” he said, clearly not comfortable addressing her by name, “what do you remember? How did you get here?”

“I don’t know.”

“You don’t - !” He sighed long-sufferingly. “How can you not know? You’ve apparently moved between worlds! That seem like something you’d notice.”

She rolled her eyes in a manner that was achingly familiar.

“I was asleep at the time,” she said tersely. “I fell asleep on the couch watching TV, nothing out of the ordinary. Next thing I know, I jerk awake and I’m lying in the Preserve next to this great big trunk of a tree. Which, when I think about it, was covered in blood. At the time, that was the least of my worries. I thought I had started sleepwalking again, so I started making my way back. I was walking home when I saw the Jeep approaching, so I stepped into the road to wave it down…”

She trailed off, staring at Stiles with tears in her eyes.

“I - I didn’t think, I mean, I didn’t want for you to get in an accident. I understand now why you panicked, if I’m - or rather my parallel self, is dead. That would spook me too. It’s just - I didn’t know. I thought it was John coming to look for me.”

“It’s alright,” said Stiles.

“No it’s not,” his dad interrupted, voice hard. “Stepping into traffic is dangerous. Safety first!”

“God, you sound exactly like my John,” she muttered.

“Furthermore,” continued the sheriff, clearly on a roll. “Why did you flee the scene? It was lucky Stiles was on the phone with Derek at the time, that way we knew instantly something was amiss. Derek was there just minutes later, and there was no sign of you.”

“I didn’t run away, if that’s what you’re implying. Of course I didn’t.” Claudia looked downright affronted. “I ran over, I checked his pulse, made sure he was breathing freely and did my best not to panic. Your face was covered in blood, I couldn’t really see your features at first. When I saw who it was - well, I freaked out. It was my son, and yet it couldn’t be.”

“What? What do you mean by that? Why couldn’t I be me? Oh, fuck you know what I mean?”

Stiles stared at Claudia in confusion. Lydia and his dad, looked equally befuddled. Claudia seemed to shrink in on herself.

“The same way you knew I couldn’t be your mom,” she whispered forlornly. “You’re dead.”

“Dead?!! Other me is dead? Oh crap, wow. I’m sorry?”

Claudia’s eyes had welled with unshed tears.

“Thank you. I - I thought for a second that you’d returned to us. That somehow you were still alive. But, of course I knew that couldn’t be the case. You -he, disappeared a while back.”

The sheriff had dumped back down into his swivel chair, face white as a sheet. “Oh god,” he mumbled, a hitch in his voice. He rummaged absentmindedly through one of his drawers, and handed Claudia a Kleenex. She accepted it with a soft smile.

“My Stiles was this big nerd, obsessed with some odd TV show. “Supernatural” I think it’s called. Something about hunters, ghosts and werewolves. I always found it entirely ridiculous, but Stiles would regale me with all the details. Apparently, the main characters seem to come back to life at the drop of a hat. I guess I momentarily thought it might not be just hogwash after all.” She laughed mirthlessly, dabbing at her eyes. “Silly me, right? I guess grief makes you do that. Cling to notions from stupid shows. The actors are hot, though,” she added as an afterthought. Stiles and Lydia nodded in agreement. The sheriff rolled his eyes so elaborately, Stiles was afraid he’d suffer vertigo if he kept it up.

“So, I, him, me - whatever, liked that show, huh? That’s cool I guess. I’ve never come across a demon, though,” he mused. “There’s nothing about that in the bestiary. Have you come across it?”

Lydia shook her head. Claudia groaned.

“You’re just as big a nerd, aren’t you? You watch that show too?”

“Occasionally,” Stiles admitted unashamedly. “It’s great fun, but they usually get all the mythology wrong. Besides, I have more than enough dealing with the supernatural in real life.”

“Sure you do,” she said, obviously not taking him seriously. “Anyway, that’s what threw me for a loop. It was my son, but it wasn’t. Then I heard someone running towards us, calling your name, and I ran away, even more confused. I’ve been holed up in a motel for a few days, panicking.”

“Okay, so I guess we can pretty much conclude it’s the Nemeton,” said Lydia. “Which means, we need to find out who’s messing with it, and how to first open the portal to get them home, then close it. I guess the practical part of it will be your job, Stiles.”

“Yeah, yeah. I’ll call Morrell, I guess. We’re supposed to have another session tomorrow anyway. I’ll ask her to push me to the top of her list.”

There was a sudden knock on the door causing everyone to jump. It opened to reveal Parrish, looking, if possible, even more confused than before.

“Sorry to disturb, but Derek is here. Ah, and he has a guest with him. Some terrifying woman claiming she’s Talia Hale and being very loud about it. Should I-”

“Oh for god’s sake. Yes! Get them in here, Parrish!” barked the sheriff, losing what little composure he had. Parrish backed away skittishly, mumbling “Remind me to look into transfers when this is over,” to no one in particular. A few seconds later Derek entered, a woman that without a doubt was a Hale, hot on his trail.

“Derek, dear. Why are we here?”

Derek didn’t respond, simply ushered her further into the room, an air of ill-concealed annoyance wafting off him like cheap cologne.

“I’m still thrown by the notion that you’re actually here,” continued Talia, unaware, or simply uninterested, in her surroundings. Stiles felt about as visible as cling wrap.

“You made a big announcement that you would be moving to New York, and then up and left without a single word to any of us. I’ve heard nothing from you for well over a year. Poor Paige is beside herself, as you can imagine. Then, all of a sudden I find you lurking around our property in a most unseemly manner. I took you for a drifter at first. Don’t you own a razor? You look like a hobo. I suppose you fashion yourself a hipster or something. Anyway, you’re lucky I wasn’t carrying my shotgun at the time. I have a shoot first, ask questions never policy, as you well know. Then you proceed to drag me into the Sheriff’s station without explanation. It’s highly - oh, hello.”

She finally seemed to take stock of her surroundings, pausing to look around the curious crowd. She nodded politely to Stiles’ dad, then positively beamed when she saw Claudia.

“Claudia, honey! What a pleasant surprise! Are we here to discuss decorations for the upcoming Beacon Hills Bid On A Basket Festival? I was thinking we go the traditional route with yellow and red, what do you think?”

“I think this Talia is just as insufferable as the one from my world,” said Claudia, voice pinched. Stiles stifled a laugh. Derek’s eyes sent out metaphorical killer beams.

“Excuse me?” Talia looked scandalized. Claudia ignored her with practiced ease, instead turning towards Derek.

“No offense to you, Derek, was it?”

“None taken,” said Derek with a stiff nod. “By the way, this _is_ the Talia from your world.”

“Oh crap.”

On the sidelines Stiles and his dad buried their head in their hands in perfect sync.

“What’s this “my world, your world” thing you’re all talking about?”

Talia glanced around the room inquisitively, then suddenly clapped her hands together in gleeful excitement.

“Oh oh, speaking of worlds. I have the best idea! We should get the entire town together to make our very own version of “We are the world”. Wouldn’t that be grand? Perhaps for the Autumn Festival? I could get Cora to videotape it. We can put it on the line after. I hear that’s all the rage.”

“I feel like I’ve stepped into a warped episode of Gilmore Girls,” said Lydia in awe.

“Was your mom really like this?” Stiles stared in horror at Talia, who had made herself comfortable by a desk and was taking furious notes.

“Not even close,” said Derek.

“Excuse me?”

Talia looked to the Sheriff, eyebrows lifted high in a very familiar Hale arch. “Do you by chance have colored paper? Perhaps a nice lilac? I’m thinking we should distribute fliers right away. I have excellent penmanship. This pen however, won’t do.”

“Kill me now,” muttered Derek.

 

***

 

In the end, Parrish was sent out to fetch paper in various shades of pastels just to shut her up. With Talia sufficiently occupied, the rest were finally able to talk freely about the problem at hand. Stiles wanted to go out to the Nemeton at once to investigate, but the Sheriff was adamantly against it.

“Not until you’ve talked to Morrell,” he said firmly. “We know too little to just go barging in there. For once, please use caution.”

“I’ll head back to my house to take another crack at the books I have available. I might have missed something.” Lydia sounded somewhat bitter. “I never even considered parallel universes. I feel stupid.”

“Don’t,” said Stiles. “If I’d suggested anything the like, you’d called me stupid. No one saw this coming.”

“Not true though.” Lydia looked thoughtful. “Someone clearly did, and that someone has been leaving clues for us to find for a while now. We have a secret helper in town, and I’d like to know who it is.”

“If you think someone was in your room, maybe I can catch a scent,” suggested Derek. Stiles nodded.

“That’s a good idea. We should head back there, see if that pans out. What do we do about them, though?”

He gestured to Claudia, who looked bored to tears, and Talia who was humming softly while applying elaborate calligraphy on a lavender sheet of paper.

“I don’t want them running around town.” The sheriff ran a tired hand over his face. Was it just Stiles’ imagination or was his hair getting grayer? “I suppose I could keep them here for the time being. I’ll have Parrish put some of the cots into an interrogation room.”

Stiles, Derek and Lydia left soon thereafter, waving to Parrish who looked somewhat disgruntled with his latest task of turning parts of the station into a makeshift bed and breakfast.

Lydia was just about to climb into her car when Stiles’ phone rang. He fished it out of his pocket in jerky movements. Now that the adrenaline of the discovery of their other-worldly visitors had worn off, he was starting to feel his injuries again.

“It’s Malia,” he said in surprise. He hadn’t really talked much to her after the incident with the Dread Doctor book. She’d been somewhat withdrawn and distant, not that he could blame her.

“Malia?” he said in lieu of a hello. He suddenly had a very bad feeling in the pit of his stomach. Derek must have sensed it, judging by the low growl coming from him.

“Did you change the schedule?”

“And a warm hello to you, too,” said Stiles dryly, ignoring his own lack of greeting. “What schedule?”

“The Nemeton watch schedule!” Malia sounded frustrated and slightly panicked. “Did you change it?”

“No. Why?”

He looked at Derek and shrugged. Lydia, who didn’t have the perk of enhanced hearing, mouthed “what is it?” Stiles ignored her.

“I can’t get a hold of Kira.” Malia sounded agitated. “It says on my schedule that she’s supposed to be guarding the Nemeton now. I called Hayden, who was on earlier, but she said Kira hadn’t turned up when she had to leave. She had an appointment with her sister and had to leave.”

“Maybe she turned her ring tone off,” suggested Stiles.

“Kira always answers her phone.” Malia still sounded antsy. “I’ve tried her for over an hour. I’m on my way to her house now. It’s just, the weirdest thing just happened.”

“I doubt it was the weirdest,” muttered Stiles under his breath. He sighed deeply before asking Malia to elaborate.  
  
It was Scott. I cut through the Preserve to save some time, and I met Scott out there. He’s not on duty. In fact, he told me yesterday he was working at Deaton’s today. So I asked him about it. If he’d changed shift with Kira or something. If he knew where she was.”

Stiles still wasn’t seeing why Malia was so upset. “So?” he asked impatiently. “Had he switched?”

“I dunno!”

“You dunno?”

“No! He wouldn’t answer.”

Stiles heard a car horn honking and some yelling in the background. Malia was probably crossing a road somewhere entirely inappropriate. It was known to happen.

“Why not?”  
“I dunno,” she said again, sounding on the verge of hysteria. “He just walked right past me. Didn’t even look at me, didn’t say a word. It was like he was in some sort of trance. It was spooky. I followed him for a while, trying to get him to snap out of it. Until I suddenly couldn’t go any further.”

“Why not?” Stiles sounded like a broken record. Could this day - this week - this year - get any crappier?

“Mountain ash! Scott just stepped right over it, like the chimeras. I however, was repelled and thrown back. It hurt like hell!”

“Crap!”

“Stiles! I’m worried about Kira!”

“We’ll meet you there,” said Stiles and hung up. Derek and Lydia had already piled into her Toyota, engine roaring and ready to go. They sped away towards the Yukimuras, ignoring every speed limit on their way.

When they arrived, the house looked deserted and unoccupied, all lights off and front door locked. Lydia pressed the bell and they heard the chime of some sort of symphony trill inside the house. Stiles looked to Derek but he shook his head. He hadn’t picked up on any heartbeats.

“Fuck it,” muttered Stiles, and for the second time, blasted the front door wide open, making it rattle against the wall. A photo fell down and shattered against the tiles. Aside from that, the house was eerily silent.

“I don’t like this,” said Lydia faintly, peering out from behind Derek. Stiles shrugged.

“At least you’re not screaming. That’s something I guess.” He turned towards her, alarmed. “You don’t feel like screaming do you? Please, say no.”

“Trust me, if I did, you’d know,” she retorted smartly.

“Anything?” Stiles turned to Derek who’d ventured further into the house, nose held high.

“There’s something, but it’s faint,” he said distractedly. “It’s hard to say if it’s just a lingering scent from earlier, or - but that seems unlikely. That’s usually a bit different. Staler somehow. It’s hard to explain,” he added.

“Fascinating,” said Lydia, tapping away on her phone.

“Lydia? Are you - tell me you’re not taking notes while we’re having a search party for Kira?”

Stiles stared at her like a parent having discovered that their kid started up a meth lab. Proud of their skill - appalled at the application.

“Don’t judge,” she snapped. “We’re stumbling around blind most of the time. I want to make sure future generations have ample resources at their disposal. It’s a noble cause!”

“Mental, that one,” he mumbled, ignoring Lydia’s angry hiss. Instead, he focused on Derek, who was standing in front of a door Stiles recognized, an unreadable look on his face.

“It’s the door to the basement,” said Stiles, stopping next to him. “It’s where they kept you after they found you in Mexico. They have this sort of bomb shelter down there.”

“A bomb shelter?” repeated Derek. Stiles, mistaking his reaction for anger, quickly back-paddled to explain.

“Dude, you weren’t locked up or anything. Just drugged. God, that didn’t sound much better!” He clasped a hand over his mouth. Derek gave him a half smile.

“Relax. I’m not mad about that. A bomb shelter usually has a very massive and dense construction. That might explain the faint scent.”

“You mean, Kira might be down there?”

Stiles didn’t really wait for an answer, just waved his hand, sending another door shattering off its hinges. It was a testament to their worry that neither berated him for it. Instead, they rushed down the rickety stairs, Stiles snapping his fingers as he rushed by the lone light bulb hanging from the ceiling, causing it to flare into light. At the bottom of the stairs, he rushed towards the massive iron door, making short work of the massive padlock. Derek pushed the door open.

Relief flooded him when he laid eyes on Kira, curled up on the cot Derek had been on last, looking pasty and sick.

“Don’t - “ she rasped out, lifting her head with great effort. “Stop! Don’t enter.”

Stiles’ foot hovered on the threshold, his every instinct telling him to ignore her.

“It’s in the air,” she wheezed out. “Wolfsbane and -”

She coughed. Stiles was appalled to see blood. It trickled from the corner of her mouth and down towards her chin. “

I think perhaps it’s something similar to what the Chemist did. I can’t - Stiles, I can’t see!”

“Fuck!”

Stiles took a step back, colliding with Derek and Lydia.

“Kira, I’ll get you the mushrooms,” yelled Lydia frantically. “I have a supply of it at home. I’ll be back as soon as I can!”

She didn’t wait for an answer, simply rushed up the stairs, heels clicking, the sound echoing off the bare cellar walls.

“Who did this?” asked Derek. Kira whimpered.

“Scott,” she wheezed, voice breaking in a way that in turn broke Stiles’ heart. “Scott did it.”

 

 

 


	19. Chapter 19

 

“Scott?”

Stiles was shocked. And he wasn’t. That lingering, nagging notion that something was amiss had been with him since the showdown weeks and weeks ago, and yet he'd never truly addressed it. Never really pushed the issue. Taken it seriously. Mainly, becaus he hadn’t been ready to trust his intuition. Had wanted Scott to be okay. So, he’d fallen back on old habits of ignoring the problem, hoping it would go away. Lately, Scott had seemed so much better and Stiles had allowed himself to be lulled into a false sense of security. He’d followed reason instead of his gut, and was paying for it now.

“Scott did - he trapped you in here? _Poisoned_ you?”

Lydia had already left to fetch the antidote, speeding out of the driveway like a seasoned rally driver. In the mean time, all Derek and Stiles could do was try to air out the toxin, all while not inhaling any of it themselves. Derek had produced a couple of old rags and dosed them in water. They’d tied them over their nose and mouth, and was keeping a safe distance, which basically meant they were shouting from the doorway.

“Yes,” croaked Kira between coughing fits. “He texted me unexpectedly, asking if I wanted some company during my watch. I was so happy, Stiles! He’s been so distant lately, and I hardly hear from him at all. He’s seemed better the the last week.” She whimpered softly. “I was so happy, I didn’t even stop to question it or think anything could be wrong.”

“Kira, don’t even talk like that,” said Stiles firmly. He recognized the signs of guilt coming a mile away. He was not letting Kira roll down a path that only lead to a myriad of unwarranted what-ifs and why-didn’t-I-realizes.

“This isn’t your fault. This isn’t anyone’s fault. We don’t know why he did it. Perhaps he’s being controlled?”

They could hear Kira moan softly. “I don’t know,” she wailed desperately. “He seemed normal at first. Then out of nowhere he emptied a handful of some kind of powder in my face. Next I know I’m down here, sprawled on the floor, watching Scott close the door and lock me in.”

“That doesn’t mean he did it of his own volition,” supplied Derek. “We’ll get to the bottom of it, I swear!”

“We should get out there, stop him before he does whatever he’s planning on doing,” said Stiles in a lower voice.

“Please, go!” pleaded Kira. “I’ll be okay, Lydia will be here soon.”

A sudden bang, then the pounding of feet alerted them to someone upstairs. A second later the door to the basement wrenched open and a very frazzled looking Malia barreled down the rickety stairs. She stopped dead two steps from Stiles and Derek, sniffing the air in disgust and eyeing their makeshift protective gear with suspicion.

“This place smell like toxins,” she said in lieu of a greeting. Another sniff and she gagged as if accidentally inhaling a spoonful of chili powder. “It’s the same stuff as the Chemist!”

“We know.”

Stiles handed her another piece of rag. Malia buried her face in it, holding her breath for good measure.

“Lydia is getting the mushrooms that works as an antidote. We’ll go after Scott as soon as she gets here.”

“Go!” said Malia, eyes flashing blue. “I’ll stay with Kira. We’ll catch up with you later.”

Stiles eyed her dubiously. “You sure?”

Malia all but pushed them up the stairs.

“I’m sure! Now go!”

They didn’t need to be told twice.

 

 

***

 

 

They skidded into the Preserve parking lot in a cloud of dust, then tumbled out of the Yumiura’s car they'd "borrowed" for the occasion. For a moment they simply stood there, just watching each other as if gathering strength.  Wordlessly and in perfect sync, they burst into action.

“Can you feel it? The Nemeton?”

Derek had jumped across the fence like a limber gymnast, and was now waiting impatiently for Stiles to climb over it the old-fashioned way and with none of the grace.

“The Nemeton? Yeah, I can feel it. Sort of.”

Stiles winced, inspecting with annoyance the tear in his favorite pair of jeans. “It’s fainter than usual, though. I don’t know how to describe it really. It doesn’t feel bad, exactly,” he added, when Derek looked like he wanted to tuck Stiles back into the car and drive away. “I’m tapped into it, okay. I’ll sense if there’s any major change.”

“I don’t like this,” muttered Derek, scenting the air.

“No one likes this, big guy.” He patted Derek on the back, nudging him ahead on the trail before them. “It’s this way, by the way. Do you smell anything? Scott?”

“No, nothing. And when I say nothing, I mean nothing. Not even animals. It’s like parts of the preserve has been shut down or warded off.”

“Shit,” said Stiles. “That sounds distinctly bad.”

They walked on for a bit in near silence, only interrupted by Stiles giving Derek directions.

“I should call my dad.”

Stiles couldn’t take the silence anymore. Derek nodded. Stiles wasted no time, and fished out his phone.

“He’ll want updates, and frankly I’m curios what our bizzaro-mums are up to. Crap!” He cursed creatively, suppressing the urge to throw his phone into the nearby shrubbery.

“What’s the matter?”

“Fucking phone has no service,” he muttered darkly. “Yours?”

Derek fished his out and shook his head. “Nothing. That’s weird too.”

“Someone’s done their homework, blocking frequencies. Maybe that’s why my line to the Nemeton feels faded as well.”

“Frequencies?” Derek turned towards Stiles, walking backwards to look at him. “That sounds like Dread Doctors to me.”

“Yeah, maybe.” Stiles bit his lower lip, mind working overtime. “I suppose there could be more of them. I don’t think so, though. I think they were just a means to an end. Something else is at work now. The Nemeton is obviously at the center of it, and I’m the freaking keeper of the keys. I - I think if anyone’s able to stop it, it might be me. I just don’t know how.”

“You think you’re the key?”

Stiles nodded. “Call it a gut feeling, but yeah.”

“I always knew you were the bright one of the bunch. You’re absolutely right, Stiles. You are the key.”

“Holy crap!”

Stiles jumped in fright, backing into Derek, who despite his many werewolf senses seemed just as taken aback by this unexpected turn of events. Because there, leaning casually against a tree, wearing a plunging V-neck and a smarmy grin, was none other than Peter Hale.

“You fucking - !” snarled Stiles, waving his fist around like an old maid with a grudge. His heartbeat was rabbiting all over the place, threatening to escape his chest.

“Now, now, no need to get nasty,” said Peter with a simper.

Stiles’ only reply was a growl. His instincts told him to pummel the older Hale to the ground. In reality, he was no match for him, and would be decimated within seconds, something Derek evidently realized. He was literally holding Stiles back by the collar of his shirt. Thankfully, he had other options, and the lessons with Morrell had paid off. Stiles  knew he could accomplish much, simply by the will of his mind. And he had a lot of will to hurt Peter Hale. 

All the leaves, twigs and moss around Peter instantly whirled up in a makeshift tornado, engulfing him.

“Take that, you fucker!” yelled Stiles vindictively. Sadly, his pleasure was short-lived. Keeping telekinesis going for long was tasking work. Soon, the tornado dwindled to a light breeze, exposing Peter again. The smug bastard looked as impeccable as always, brushing of stray leaves with the air of an Upper East Sider at a boring cocktail party.

“Are we done with the childish charades?” he asked silkily. Stiles’ answer was a resounding silence and a glower worthy of Lydia. Peter tipped an invisible hat in his direction, before addressing Derek.

“And a warm hello to you, too dear nephew. I appreciate the restraint. I was half expecting my throat ripped by now.”

“What are you doing here, Peter?” asked Derek, ignoring the taunt. His voice had gone dark and - god, that voice was doing things to Stiles’ libido. So not the time, but god, so hot!

Peter arched an amused eyebrow in Stiles’ direction, but didn’t comment. Stiles adjusted his dick discreetly. Or perhaps not so discretely if the sniff and flash of blue in Derek’s eyes was anything to go by.

“I’m merely here to offer my services, of course,” crooned Peter. “Always happy to help out family as you all know. I see you’ve made strides since our last encounter, Stiles. Kudos to you. I always knew you had it in you. Only too happy to help facilitate your growth.”

“You locked me in a cell at the station,” snarled Stiles. “No hints, no guidelines, no nothing. Just the ominous message that Derek was in grave danger. Real helpful you were.”

“It unlocked your talents, didn’t it?”

Peter had adopted an innocent visage that stood in stark contrast to everything Stiles knew of the man. Wolf. Beast. Monster. Take your pick, Peter fit all categories.

“By unlocking your gift, you unlocked the cell.” He twirled his index finger midair. “See what I did there? Clever play on words, right?”

“You’re still a fucker and I don’t trust you.”

“Ditto,” said Derek. “You’ve masked your scent. I didn’t smell you at all.”

Peter clasped his hands together in pure glee. “You noticed! Clever boy. Yes, I’ve perfected that little trick as of lately. A necessity since I needed to move about undetected. I had things to uncover, secrets to dig up, that sort of thing.” He trailed off with a shrug.

“You’re the one messing with the Nemeton!”

It all made perfect sense now. Of course it was Peter! Stiles felt like braining himself on a rock. He should’ve known! He knew Peter was out there somewhere. Why hadn’t it occurred to him that he was off plotting his next nefarious move?

Stiles exchanged looks with Derek who seemed to agree with his conclusion. It wasn’t suck a stretch, really. Peter had lost most of his family in the fire. Almost lost his mind as well. At first it had taken him on a deranged revenge spree. Every story written would tell you that revenge never solved anything. Had Peter cooked up another warped way of curing his own heartache and loss? Somehow Stiles didn’t put it past him.

“Seeking revenge didn’t help, did it?” asked Derek hesitantly. “Is that why you’re doing this? Opening a portal? To bring our family back? Only - .”

Derek looked like he was struggling, emotions connected to the fire clearly brought to the surface. He was better, but he was far from okay.

“Have you met her? Other her, I mean? Talia. Mom.” He laughed mirthlessly. “She’s nothing like mom at all. She looks the same, but she’s like a pod person, ranting on about festivals and flower arrangements. You can’t -”. He let out a strangled sort of half whine. Stiles’ heart ached for him. “You can’t fix the past, Peter. Not like this!”

Peter was back to leaning against the tree, looking throughly bored with the display before him.

“Are you done with your pointless melodrama?” he asked when Derek lapsed into a stilted sort of silence. “I’m afraid you gentlemen have it all wrong. I most certainly have _not_ opened the portal. In fact, I’ve been trying to help you bozos get with the program for weeks now. For two such smart people, Lydia and you are remarkably slow on the uptake.”

“ _You?_!”

Stiles cocked his head in disbelief. “Are you telling me you’re the one that’s been leaving books and DVDs behind as clues?”

“Indeed I am.”

Stiles threw his hands up, exchanging exasperated looks with Derek. “Awesome. Really helpful. Not! Have you ever considered, I dunno, just telling us?”

“And risk you people throwing me back into Eichen House?” Peter had adopted a quite frankly frightening tone of voice. “I think not. I couldn't risk that. That place - “ He shuddered. “I’m never going back there. Besides,” he added, disposition suddenly back to his patented smug drawl, “I didn’t want to tip anyone off about my presence. Not until I had all the pieces of the puzzle lined up all nice and in a perfectly straight row.”

“Not good enough.”

Derek’s tone was flat and unforgiving. “I don’t see how we can trust anything you say. Not after everything that’s happened.”

“Nephew dear, I can assure you, I’m being as honest as I’ve ever been. Listen to my heart, tell me I’m lying.”

Derek snorted. “You’re not. Or you’re faking that too. If you can mask your scent, who’s to say you can’t mask your lies to. I’m sorry, but you’ve put yourself in the wrong corner far too many times for me to believe anything you say.”

“Well in that case,” said Stiles, pulling a pouch from his pocket and upending a generous amount of fine ash into his palm, “I guess it’s time for me to test out a new trick I’ve been working on.”

He threw the blue powder into the air, and with razor like precision it flew towards Peter like a flock of birds, hitting him square in the face. His eyes bugged, it looked like he was about to form some sort of word, but nothing came out. Instead, he fell to the forest floor like a petrified Neville Longbottom.

“Petrificus Totalis,” said Stiles gleefully. Derek rolled his eyes.

“You’re a huge dork.”

“And you’re a huge werewolf who gets the honor of carrying the fucker.”

Derek rolled his eyes, but picked up Peter none the less, carrying him like a log over his shoulder.

 

 

***

 

  
Finding the Nemeton took significantly longer than usual.

“It’s this way - I think.”

Stiles stopped, panting. His forehead was sweaty, rivulets actually dripping off his nose. He felt dizzy and nauseated. But Derek didn’t need to know that.

“ _You think_?”

Yeah, Derek wasn’t so easily fooled. Stiles cursed mentally, yet plastered on a wide grin to mask his discomfort.

“No need to get snarky. It’s just a little fainter than usual, is all. Some fucker - perhaps this fucker,” he gestured to the still unconscious Peter, slumped across Derek’s back. He looked like a creepy mannequin, “is messing with it. I’ll find it, don’t worry.”

“I do worry. You look like shit.”

“Ah, you say the sweetest things.”

Stiles closed his eyes, reaching out and catching a faint pulsation. Yeah, he was definitely on the right track. Probably. Shit, he’d lost it again. Something was not right. With each step he half expected a burning sensation to erupt across his chest again. Yet, nothing happened. Not so much as a singed chest hair. Not that Stiles had all that many chest hairs, but yeah. He was definitely a bit loopy.

Stiles missed a step, almost tripping over a branch on the path. Derek caught him with a steadying hand. God, it felt as if his head was about to explode! Come to think of it, a burning chest didn’t sound so bad after all…

“You’re clearly not okay.” Derek sounded exasperated and worried. “Forgive me, but warning bells always chime when you claim to be okay. That’s your go to phrase when you’re more or less ripping at the seams. I can smell exhaustion and frustration coming off you like cheap cologne in a dive bar.”

“What a vividly disturbing picture you’re painting for me, buttercup. You’ve been to many dive bars, have you?”

“Stop it, Stiles.”

Derek halted, grabbing Stiles by the shoulder. He fought the urge to wiggle out of his grip. He didn’t want Derek to notice he was covered in cold sweat and probably just two shakes from a full collapse.

“Oh my god!” Derek dropped Peter to the ground with a sickening thud. Stiles vaguely noticed him face-planting in a very awkward position, before Derek grabbed his chin, tilting his face towards his own.

“Stiles!” he yelled exasperated. “You’re bleeding! Fuck this, we’re leaving!”

“No!”

Stiles wrenched out of Derek’s grip, losing his balance in the process. He collapsed against a rock, equally as ungracefully as the unconscious Peter. Now he could feel it too. The warm blood trickling from his nose, hitting his lips, leaving a coppery taste and a dry sensation in his mouth. Fucking Nemeton!

“Look at you!”

Derek fell to his knees in front of him, wiping the blood away. “You look like death warmed over. With each step, you get worse. Whatever is happening, it’s affecting you in a bad way. Proximity is not a good thing here.”

“The alternative is worse,” Stiles panted. Yeah, his eyesight was getting woozy too. Awesome. “We can’t let this place be overrun by people’s doppelgangers. Also, I have this nasty feeling opening a freaking two-lane freeway between alternate worlds isn’t doing wonders for the balance Morrell keep harping on about. Ergo, I need to stop it.”

Stiles let out a frustrated sound, kicking aimlessly in Peter’s direction.

“He’s an untrustworthy piece of shit, but I think he’s right about one thing.” He caught Derek’s eyes, doing his best to channel everything without cheapening it with words. “If we want to stop this, to make it right, I need to be there.”

“Not if it kills you.”

Derek’s words came out in a soft plea. It broke Stiles’ heart in a million pieces.

“I hope it doesn’t,” he said honestly. Now it was his turn to wipe Derek’s face. “But if the alternative is allowing a rip in the fabric of our universe that will tear everything apart, then I guess that’s the price I have to pay.”

He tried to sound chivalrous and brave, but there was no masking the raw fear in his voice. He’d never felt smaller, more powerless in his life.

“You always were a reckless idiot,” murmured Derek. “You better pray you survive this, or I’ll kill you myself.”

Stiles snorted, inhaling snot and blood in the process.

“There’s my sourwolf.”

“Can you walk? If not, I’d gladly leave behind sassy uncle Peter so I can carry you instead. You can just trap him in a mountain ash circle or something.”

Stiles contemplated the idea, but soon dismissed it.

“Nah, bring him. I’ll manage somehow, I’ll crawl if I have to. I have this weird gut feeling we’re gonna need that sorry sack of sarcasm before this shitstorm is over.”

 

  
*

 

  
It felt like eons. In reality it only took them little more than half an hour to reach the Nemeton. Stiles wasn’t sure if he should be relived or apprehensive when it finally came into view. It looked serene and peaceful on the surface. No villainous creature hunched behind it, ready to pounce. That would’ve been too easy. Sadly, there were no signs of Scott either. Stiles had half expected this would be the place he’d go. Wherever he was, he hoped he was safe.

Despite the calm appearance of the clearing, Stiles could feel the telluric currents flickering and boiling. It was as if they were there one moment, then gone the next. The instances when he sensed them, they felt like a maelstrom, steadily building in intensity and force.

His head hurt, a pulsating kind of ache similar to a bad migraine. Weirdly, it seemed to be in tune with the currents. When he lost the sensation of them, the pain exploded behind his eyelids. Spots danced before his eyes, and he doubled over, cramps running down his spine. As soon as the currents were back again, his body normalized.

“God, I suddenly have a world of respect for women everywhere giving birth,” he moaned. “The pain comes and goes like contractions.” His eyes bugged and he clasped his stomach in terror. “You don’t think I’m pregnant do you?” he asked shrilly. “God, wouldn’t it be typical of me to become the first documented case of mpreg! I’ll probably father a centaur or some shit like that.”

“Do you have a fever? That’s ludicrous, Stiles. Even for you.”

Derek was busy doing a perimeter sweep, edging around the clearing like a seasoned FBI agent. Stiles half expected him to do a silly police roll across the Nemeton. The werewolves in his life had an uncomprehending need for unnecessary gymnastics.

Stiles shrugged. “I guess. And no, I don’t have a fever. Oh, fuck it!”

The currents had gone offline again, and this time he actually retched. When it was over, Stiles felt as if he’d been wrung inside out.

“You need to help me up on the Nemeton. I can’t do it myself.”

“I’d much rather put you over my shoulder and run you home.”

Stiles hadn’t seen Derek this sombre and scared since Cora had been throwing up black goo. He felt touched and annoyed in equal measures.

“We’ve been over this. I’m not going anywhere and that’s that. Besides, I think I know why the telluric currents keep switching on and off. I can feel them when they’re here, in our world. When I loose the connection I think they’re literally gone. I suspect the portal is open, but not stable. It fluctuates. Since I’m more or less mentally connected to them, it hurts like a fucker when they’re gone. Like I’m missing a vital part of me.”

“I don’t like this,” said Derek.

“Who does?” asked Stiles incredulously. “Aside from the fuckers responsible, of course. I’d hoped they’d show their ugly faces though.” He pouted.

“You just might get your wish. Someone’s coming.”

Derek stood dead silent, like someone had instigated a mannequin challenge and failed to inform Stiles. The only movement was his nose twitching slightly, searching for a scent.

“It’s probably Lydia and the girls, or my dad,” said Stiles, craning his neck in all directions. He couldn’t see shit except trees and then more trees.

Derek answered in a low and threatening growl.

“Okay then, not Lydia, the girls or my dad. Got it.”

Stiles tried to straighten up and focus his mind, following Derek’s line of vision. Derek’s growl intensified, accompanied by the flash of his eyes.

“Enemy?” hissed Stiles, grabbing for his phone. Good, his GPS was activated. The others should be able to find them easily enough. He hoped they’d hurry, though. He wasn’t much help in his fatigued state. To Stiles’ relief Derek shook his head, but the threatening grumble continued.

“If it’s not an enemy, then what’s with the angry sounds, bub?” He nudged Derek, hoping to snap him out of it. “Honestly, I haven’t heard you make this much wolfy sounds since you found Danny on my bed.”

Two things happened almost at once. Derek let out a echoing howl, startling Stiles. Then Danny stepped into the clearing, hands held up in surrender.

“Don’t bite?” he pleaded, eyes wide. “I come in peace.”

“ _Danny_? What the fuck?” whined Stiles, already swatting at Derek who looked like he wanted to chase the newcomer away like a scared bunny. “I feel like I should get a cookie or something. I mentioned you and there you are. Wow, did I just summon you? That's freaky.”

Derek snarled.

“Oh for crying out loud! Derek, put the fangs and claws away! Jesus! It’s just Danny.” Resigned, he shook his head. That quickly morphed into a startled bug-eyed expression. “Unless you really are the mastermind behind this gateway to bizzaro world? That would be very disappointing. Or you are from an alternate world! Even worse!”

“What?” Danny looked genuinely confused. “I didn’t understand anything of what you just said. Then again, I seldom do,” he added in afterthought. “Honestly, I just wanted to talk to you.”

“Really?” Stiles crossed his arms, trying to look menacing. He didn’t much succeed as the currents once again disappeared, causing a gut-churning cramp that reduced him to a fatigued lump of moaning limbs for a few minutes.

“Holy crap!” Danny looked white as a sheet. “What’s wrong with him?”

The pain vanished as soon as it came, though it took a few moments for Stiles to regain his wits.

“Too complicated a tale, sorry, this isn’t the time,” he wheezed, wiping sweat of his forehead. Derek helped him up, supporting him over to the Nemeton where he collapsed on top of it in an ungainly heap. “What I want to know, though,” he continued, pointing somewhat limply at Danny, “is how you found us. This trunk is magical, meaning it’s exceedingly hard to find unless you’re somehow connected to it or. If so, you have some explaining to do, Danno.”

“What? No! I hacked your phone and tracked your location.” Danny held up his own phone, showing a map with a blinking red dot.

“Course you did,” mumbled Stiles. “That doesn’t explain the why, though. Couldn’t this have waited until tomorrow? We’re kind of in the middle of a supernatural crisis, in case you hadn’t noticed.”

“Sorry.”

“Didn’t you want to stay away from all this?” Stiles twirled a finger in the air.

“Sort of,” mumbled Danny almost inaudibly. Derek’s growls intensified.

“Well, you’ve taken the trouble of finding us way out here, so I’m guessing whatever you’ve got on your mind is important. Please, spit it out.”

Stiles gestured for Derek to sit down next to him. He needed something to lean against, otherwise he’d keel over within the minute.

“Is he alright?” Danny stared curiously at Peter. Stiles glanced at him disdainfully, noticing Peter’s fingers were twitching slightly.

“Damned werewolves and their fast healing powers. I think I have some - yes!”

Spasming like a fish out of water, Stiles managed to extract another small pouch from his jeans pocket. With shaky fingers he opened it, fishing out a handful of ash.

“This better work,” he muttered, gathering his strength and praying silently the currents would stay the fuck in this world for another minute. He threw the ash in Peter’s direction, watching with unabashed pride as it fell neatly in a circle around him. Stiles felt it like a click of a lock when the ash activated.

“Whoa!” Danny backed away, eyes bugging. Derek looked like a proud - well, he actually looked like a proud boyfriend. Stiles very much liked that look.

“What the - _what are you_?”

“That, Danny my boy - whoa hold the growls there Derek, Danny is not my boy in the literal sense. Just a boy that is a friend.” He shrugged apologetic in Danny’s direction. Derek tightened his hold on Stiles, hugging him to his chest.

“What I tried to say is that I don’t know. Morrell calls me a spark. I like to think my Hogwarts letter simply got lost in the mail. Or the owl went missing. I can just make shit happen. Sometimes,” he added sheepishly. “I’m kind of at the Neville-the-early-years stage, right now.”

Danny looked like he regretted asking. Stiles got that a lot, strangely.

“So, you like trapped him? He’s the bad guy?”

“He’s _a_ bad guy. The jury is still out on whether he’s the big bad or not. Hence the precaution. Now, I suggest you either state your business or leave.”

Danny shuffled his feet nervously, nodding his head. Yet nothing came out. He opened his mouth a couple of times, but seemed to stop before he could say something. Whatever it was, it had him nervous and uncomfortable.

“Look,” said Stiles, sighing. “I can see that whatever you want to get off your chest is important and all, but maybe we should do it some other -”

“I’ve lied to you all!”

Danny looked about as shocked as Stiles of his outburst. Like he couldn’t believe he’d actually gotten the words out. Derek stiffened behind him. Stiles grabbed his hand, steadying him. He hadn’t reacted favorably to Danny when he appeared harmless. If he admitted to lies and subterfuge…

“Okay…” Stiles spread his arms in the universal gesture of “go on.” Danny bit his lip and started pacing in circles.

“I - I don’t know where to start. It’s all - oh my god! I can’t believe I’ve let it go this far. Stiles, Derek - I’m so incredibly sorry!”

“What for?” asked Derek. Stiles could feel him holding back, controlling his instincts.

“I wasn’t really gone. There was no backpacking or cool trips with my cousin. I’ve - I’ve basically been holed up in my room, refusing to go to school. Claiming I was depressed. I’ve - God! My parents have been so worried. I- .” He swallowed audibly, face distraught and drawn. “I couldn’t do it to them any longer, so - so I finally went back to school.”

“What? Why? We haven’t seen you since Ethan left? Was he the reason? Did he do something?”

Stiles felt his ire rise. He’d never liked those twins!

“What? No!” Danny shook his head. “I broke up with Ethan. I actually hooked up with him in the first place to get closer to you all. To find out more about what was going on, but without really getting too involved in your problems. I - “ He laughed mirthlessly. “I had enough trouble of my own. I just hoped that he’d know something, I guess.”

“Know something about what? I’m very confused right now,” admitted Stiles, glancing at Derek. “Are you confused? You are. Your left eyebrow is higher than the right. You have a tell.”

“Shut it, Stiles.” Derek clasped a hand over his mouth. “Excuse him, he rambles a lot.”

Danny was back to muttering as he walked in circles round and round the mountain ash barrier.

“Hey, step away from the ash, you might accidentally break the line,” admonished Stiles. Danny jumped like an electroshocked bull, then stopped.

“I helped them.”

Stiles's insides froze. _Them_. It could mean a myriad of things, but every conceivable alternative running through his mind ranged from bad, via worse, to apocalyptic.

“Who?” he asked simply, voice like steel.

“The Dread Doctors.”

It was is if the preserve held its breath. Waiting for some sort of dam to break. When it did, it was in a surprisingly calm way.

“Why?” Stiles’ voice was unnervingly soft. It didn't camouflage the simmering anger. 

Danny squirmed. “I had no choice.”

“You always have a choice,” growled Derek with a faint lisp. Yeah, the fangs were out again.

“I know it was wrong. I hated it! That’s why I stopped going to school. I just couldn’t face any of you, knowing that I helped them organize a deadpool. I’m so glad you all survived,” he added, heartfelt.

“Lots didn’t,” said Stiles flatly. Danny flinched.

“I know. I just - they promised me that if I helped set up the technical aspect of it, encrypt the lists and handle the transactions, they would release him.”

“Okay, whoa. Backtrack, please.” Stiles held up a hand. “So, you were the one behind the cipher keys and shit? Damn, I never thought of that. Makes sense to have a sort of monitor working for them. If you ever saw their lab you’d know they were very old school and not at all tech-savvy. Never mind, not important now anyway. Let’s rewind to the biggest question. Release _who_ exactly?”

“Jackson.”

Danny slumped to the forest floor, looking exhausted and worn way beyond his years. Stiles felt cold all over. Numb.

“Jackson.” Danny’s voice was barely above a whisper, yet words had never been so clear, so loud. “He’s not in London. He was never in London. In fact,” Danny drew a deep breath, staring at Stiles and Derek much like a man on death row. “Jackson’s been in Eichen House since the summer after sophomore year.”

 

 

 

 

 

 

 


	20. Chapter 20

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A short interlude from Malia's POV

“I feel really bad about just dumping Kira there like that.”

Lydia was panting slightly, clearly struggling to keep up with Malia’s frankly brisk pace.

“We shouldn’t have done that,” she repeated for the eleventh time. Malia had been counting.

She whirled around, eyes flashing blue, more in frustration than anything. In all honesty, she agreed. It felt wrong to come out here without Kira. They could probably use her fierce katana moves before this was over. But it would take hours for the effects of the compound Scott had infected her with to wear off. The mushrooms Lydia had brought had helped. Kira had improved more or less instantly, but when they walked her out of the house, her eyesight was still not back. They’d driven her to the hospital, leaving her in Melissa’s care for the time being, evading the details surrounding her condition. No need to alarm Melissa unnecessary. Not until they knew more why Scott had done it.

“I feel bad too,” Malia admitted, then turned towards the path again. “But you know as well as I do, she wouldn’t be of much use to us if she can’t even see.”

“I hate it when you’re being logical,” Lydia muttered. “God, I’m wearing the wrong shoes for this. The suede will be ruined. Not that it matters,” she added hastily when Malia glared over her shoulder. “Just an observation.”

“This way.”

Malia fought her way through a thick patch of bushes, ignoring Lydia’s steady stream of curses as branches and leaves whipped her across the face.

“Do you have their scent?” Lydia panted. “I wholeheartedly support getting there as soon as possible, but would it kill you to stay on the paths, at least like, half of the time? I can track Stiles’ GPS on my phone, you know.”

Malia stopped abruptly, causing Lydia to bump in to her.

“What now?”

“I don’t have their scents.”

Why hadn't she noticed until now? Malia felt chilled to the bone. 

“You don’t? Don’t tell me you’ve led us miles in the wrong direction. I’m not in the mood for detours.”

Malia could hear Lydia fumbling through her bag, probably looking for her phone. She turned around, grabbing her hands urgently.

“I know we’re going in the right direction,” she said insistently. “I’m following a scent - not just Stiles or Derek’s.” She shook her head slightly, still not sure what it meant.

“I don’t follow.” Lydia looked annoyed. Fit-to-murder kind of annoyed. “Please explain. Now!”

Malia inhaled deeply, identifying the by now familiar scent. “I’ve scented this before,” she began. “It’s very alluring, reeling me in somehow. It calls to me.”

Lydia’s eyes widened, and not in disdain for once.

“Now you’re scaring me.”

“I don’t mean to. I - It’s hard to explain,” she said with a shrug.

“Try,” urged Lydia.

“Do you remember the first time Stiles got that burn?”

Lydia nodded. "Vividly."

“Well,” she continued. “When he snuck out to go look at the Nemeton after, I was already there. I don’t even fully remember getting there. But I was drawn in by a scent. A scent of coyote.”

“Yeah, I know that. We thought it was Theo.”

Malia nodded. “As you know I later found out that wasn’t the case. I’ve smelled it again several times since. I smell it now! And don’t ask me how, but I know it will lead me to the Nemeton. I just - “

She hesitated, lowering her eyes, not really ready to see Lydia’s reaction, fearing the worst.

“I just don’t know why. I - I feel like I’m not fully in control around it. I’m scared it’s connected to my memory of the Dread Doctors. That happened by the Nemeton, too. I still don’t remember ever being out in the woods as a human like that. It -.”

Malia inhaled deeply. She kept her eyes trained on the ground, kicking some twigs and stones around nervously. She honestly startled when Lydia stepped closer, put her hand on her chin and lifted it, forcing her to face her head on.

“It’s not you,” she said firmly. “You’re not the one messing with the Nemeton!”

Malia’s breath hitched, letting out a strangled sort of half sob.

“How can you be sure? Stiles found me there that one time. I keep smelling this weird scent that no one else seem to notice. The Dread Doctors did something to me! If Stiles can be possessed, if Scott can be compromised, then who's to say I can't too?!”

“We’ll get to the bottom of it.” Lydia’s warm hands grabbed her face reassuringly. “I trust you, Malia. I know you wouldn’t do anything like this of your own volition. Now,” she cocked her head and smiled crookedly. “Let’s find Stiles and Derek. Together we’ll figure it all out. We always do.”

 

  
*

 

  
The rest of the trek was done in silence, the only sound leaves rustling and twigs breaking as they made their way through the increasingly dense undergrowth. As they walked the scent intensified, urging Malia forward. The further in they walked, the darker it got. The trees were tall, blocking most of the natural light.

“Listen.”

Lydia’s words sounded foreign and misplaced out here. Like loud swearing in church. Sacrilegious almost.

Malia strained her ears. “I don’t hear anything,” she said, perplexed.

“Exactly.” Lydia twirled around in a circle, head tilted upwards. “There’s nothing. Not even the sound of birds. It’s eerie.”

It really was. Malia felt goosebumps on her back.

“Let’s go,” she said briskly, forging on. The scent was getting clearer, more intense. They were getting close. Closer.

“You’re right. We are heading in the right direction,” said Lydia a few minutes later. Her prediction about the suede shoes had come true. They were ruined. The same could be said for her elaborate hairdo. It had partially come undone, stray leaves sticking to it in tufts. Malia thought she’d never looked prettier.

Lydia waved her phone in Malia’s direction. “I’ve picked up Stiles’ phone. It’s not far now.”

Lydia moved to the front and set a surprisingly brisk pace. Malia fell back into her own dark thoughts. Now that Lydia had taken the command and she didn’t need to concentrate on the path, her mind was free to ponder the various scenarios she feared might be true. When Lydia suddenly stopped, it was Malia’s turn to bump into her.

“What’s the matter,” she whispered, instinctively sensing that something was afoot. Lydia pointed towards what looked like a clearing. Malia was shocked to realize that she could now actually pick up the very distinct scents of Stiles and Derek. How had she missed that? The answer was obvious. The more alluring scent had overshadowed them completely.

Stiles and Derek were talking. Malia strained her ears, picking up on the conversation. Her eyes bugged when she realized they weren't the only ones there.

“Peter,” she hissed, teeth clenched. Lydia visibly startled, but she composed herself quickly.

"Peter's there? Why?"

Malia shrugged. "Dunno. He’s not talking." His heartbeat was steady, yet slower than normal. “I think he’s unconscious.”

“Good,” snarled Lydia. “That’s the only state I can tolerate him in. Then who’re they talking too?”

The scent was vaguely familiar, but only in the sense that she’d encountered it before, but didn’t really know it. She shrugged. “It’s not Scott, that’s all I know. It doesn’t sound like they’re arguing, so perhaps not someone we should fear?”

Lydia looked doubtful. “I fear everything and trust no one,” she said firmly. “Present company excluded, obviously.”

Malia shrugged, focusing back on the conversation, picking up a name she didn’t know.

“Who’s Jackson?”

Lydia stiffened, suddenly white as a sheet.

“Jackson? Is he there?” Her voice had gone up several octaves, and was now bordering on shrill. Malia was equal parts confused and curious.

“I don’t think so,” she said, straining her ears again. “They’re talking about him. Wait -”

Lydia poked her in the ribs. Malia swatted her hands away.

“Oh crap!”

“What? What is it! Tell me! NOW!” The last of Lydia's patience had fled her like a spooked deer.

“I don’t know who he is or anything, but some guy just told them he’s not in London.”

Lydia gasped. “Where? Where is he? Is he here?”

“Eichen House,” said Malia, watching Lydia’s face crumble. “He’s in Eichen House.”

 

 


	21. Chapter 21

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've obsessed, revised and anguished over this chapter for too long, so now I'm simply posting it... *runs to hide*

  
“Jackson?”

Stiles’ jaw had dropped. Next to him Derek let out a strangled sound, sort of like a wounded animal. In a way he was just that. They’d never really talked much about Isaac or Jackson, still Stiles knew Derek felt guilty and responsible for them in his warped tortured wolfy way.

Danny nodded morosely. “Yeah.”

“In Eichen?”

“Sadly, yes.”

“Not London?”

“No.”

“You sure?”

Danny nodded. “Yeah. At first I believed it, too. That he’d moved to London. I got a cryptic text not long after he left, saying he’d found some cool pack and that he wouldn’t be in touch much. It - well, on a surface level that kind of sounded like something Jackson would do.”

“Agreed.” Stiles nodded vigorously. “The term “major douche” comes to mind.” Danny rolled his eyes.

“Yeah, he’s got some unfortunate sides to him, but once you get to know him that angry facade falls away. Too you that might sound like Jackson. Too me it didn’t.”

“So, providing this is accurate. How did you find out?”

“I tried to get in touch with him. I tried calling, but the number was disconnected. So I tried to contact his parents.” He sighed deeply, wringing his hands. “I’m a good hacker. Great even. So I hacked into the server of the law firm his dad works for. In the records at the American branch he’s listed as working at their London office. When I hacked the London servers, it said he was in California. It was basically just an endless loop. It was as if they’d vanished in the night. I still haven’t found them. That’s some grade A witness protection disappearing act.”

“Still, couldn’t they have changed their names and started fresh over there? With Jackson being a werewolf, perhaps they wanted to lay low. Forge new identities and stuff?”

Danny shook his head. “You don’t know his parents like I do. They’re not the kind to lay low. Besides, even if they did, I would’ve found a digital trace. But there’s nothing. Like they’ve been purged from all the official databases. You need access to some pretty protected systems to do that.”

“Hold on.” Derek had been silent up till now, probably just processing it all. “How do you know he’s in Eichen?”

“Someone sent me a video.”

Danny pulled out his phone, tapped and swiped and then hit play on a blurry video of what Stiles immediately recognized as the lower levels of Eichen house. It was the same place he’d rescued Lydia from not too long ago. The footage was shaky. It was evident the one filming was walking down the corridor. Stiles felt cold all over. It was so familiar. Too familiar. The numbers over the doors. The bars. The hands reaching out as they walked past them. Some normal looking, others scaled and unfamiliar. The one filming stopped in front of the door marked “5”, zooming in through the bars. It took a few seconds before the picture came into focus.

There was no doubt about it. It was Jackson. His hair was longer, his face gaunt and drawn, eyes dead and blank. True, Stiles had never been the guy's biggest fan, but he certainly didn’t deserve this.

The one holding the camera banged on the bars, startling Jackson.

“No,” Jackson mumbled weakly, folding in on himself like a scared porcupine. “No more, please. No more.”

Something long and pointy was inserted between the bars. It took Stiles a few seconds to realize it was a syringe of sorts.

“What are they doing?” he asked, looking to Danny.

“Just watch. Please.”

Jackson had backed all the way into the corner, hunched over and shaking. The contraption hummed slightly and a soft light appeared on the tip closes to Jackson. He whimpered.

“Please, don’t,” he begged. It fell on deaf ears. Next the syringe was shoved into his skin. Jackson howled, eyes flashing blue, fangs elongating. The werewolf transformation only lasted for a few seconds as the syringe slowly filled with blackish liquid.

“Oh my god,” Stiles moaned in horror as the pieces slowly began to fit together, creating a horrifying fresco. Derek seemed to be on the same page. Still, neither was prepared for what happened next.

The bright blue eyes dimmed, giving way for a more murky yellow. Worse yet, his skin began to ripple, exposing a scaly pattern Stiles knew all too well.

“Fuck!” he exclaimed in pure disbelief.

“How?” Derek sounded wrecked. “He was cured of that. He changed into a werewolf, he shouldn’t still be like that?”

“I dunno.” Danny threw out his hands in resignation. “All I know is that a link to this video appeared on my tablet out of the blue one day. I couldn’t even track it, but it came with a message. _“We have your friend. Tell a soul and he dies. Do as your told and he lives. Await further instructions._ ”” regurgitated Danny on autopilot.

“That’s when I decided to try to get closer to you guys. I approached Ethan, tried to find out what the alphas might know.” He shrugged helplessly. “They didn’t know anything. All I got out of that was a broken heart. Not long after Ethan left town, they made contact again. This time with instructions for setting up the deadpool. I - I complied.”

It was eerily silent for a few seconds. Then the undergrowth to their left exploded in motions and two blurs barreled into the clearing, one a furious streak of red. Lydia ran straight for Danny, pummeling his chest with her fists, screaming and ranting.

“How could you? How could you keep this from me! If I’d known!! If you’d told us -!!”

She let out a choked gasp, collapsing to the ground, tears streaming down her face. Malia stood behind her looking helpless and unsure of what to do. She ended up patting Lydia awkwardly on top of her head.

“Stiles -," Lyida rasped. "If we’d know… You were there! You broke me out! We left him behind…”

Her voice crumbled. Danny lost the last shred of dignity he had and fell down beside her, pleading.

“I’m sorry! I didn’t know what to do. Who I could trust. If they’d found out - they swore they’d kill him. I - I’m sorry!”

“The Dread Doctors used him, didn’t they?” asked Stiles, still numb by the discovery. “They used his DNA to create chimeras. Heck, Tracy’s just like Jackson - a mix of kanima and werewolf. It was staring us in the face this entire time.”

“Well, I guess you were all too preoccupied with your own little dramas to pay attention to the big picture.”

Stiles' ruminations were rudely interrupted by yet another character making a surprise entrance. He whirled around, letting out a surprised gasp. “ _You?_ " he cried in disbelief. 

He was surprisingly unsurprised to find they had company. He’d expected it. Known that at some point, someone would appear. Weak as he might be, he was prepared to fight. He was also prepared for the notion he might not survive the ordeal. He was however, not prepared for the frankly disturbing tableau before him.

“Braeden," he grit out with a strained grimace, trying and failing to sound calm. 

For a split second the sight of her had, for once, comforted him. Stiles might not like her much, but still recognized her as an asset in a fight. That notion quickly vaporized when he saw who was trailing behind her, eyes drowned by black swirls, and dragging a huge crate.

Scott.

“Scott!”

A chorus of cries and calls out for his name echoed across the clearing. Scott didn’t so much as blink or react in any way. He simply stood there, still holding om to the crate as if he was afraid it would float away if he let go. Braeden smiled, giving a little wave hello. She looked positively deranged.

“What the fuck have you done?” snarled Stiles, taking a tentative step forward. She raised her index finger, waggling it menacingly back and forth.

“Nope, don’t come any closer! Or I’ll command Scott here to, I dunno. Slice open his own wrists. I've come too far for you to ruin things now.”

She arched an eyebrow, the whites of her teeth flashing brightly in the dimming afternoon light.

“You wouldn’t,” cried Lydia hotly. “You couldn’t.”

Braeden snorted. “I would and I could. Do you need a demonstration? I’d be happy to oblige.”

She turned towards Scott, snapping her fingers. Scott’s right hand extended much like a poorly made robot, movements jerky and unnatural. To Stiles’ horror he saw his claws were out. Before he could utter a single word, Braeden flicked her wrist in a sharp movement, and Scott’s hand jerked in perfect sync, creating a red gash across his left forearm. Bright red blood gushed from the open wound. The girls cried in horror. Stiles felt the stirrings of something powerful and dangerous flicker to light inside him.

“Don’t worry. It’s not deep,” said Braeden conversationally. “He’ll heal in no time.”

“Why are you doing this?” Malia’s voice was shrill and drenched in unconcealed anger. “I fucking left town with you to look for my mom! You weren’t even here when everything with the Doctors happened! I don’t get why you’d stoop to this? Opening a portal?” Seriously? Whatever for? Do you think that will help you find the Desert Wolf?”

Movement in his peripheral vision momentarily distracted him. Stiles turned his head slightly only to see that Peter had now regained consciousness. Awesome. Just what they needed. More villains. It was like a fucking convention!

Braeden shrugged casually, then regarded Malia with an amused expression.

“Do you think I decided to do this on a whim? Out of a petty obsession? Come on!”

She laughed, throwing her head back. Overhead the sky suddenly cracked, lightning blinking across the sky. For a split second it bathed the clearing in an almost blinding light. When darkness descended again, thunder rolled above them, like an ominous theme song. In that split second of brightness though, something had caught Stiles’ eye. A flicker. A crack in an otherwise perfect surface.

Derek grabbed his arm, probably sensing Stiles’ shifting emotions. The grounding sensation was welcome. It helped center his thoughts. Malia for her part, continued to yell and rant. Stiles understood the inclination. She probably felt betrayed and used. Heck, even he felt betrayed, and he didn’t even know Braeden. Perhaps that was much their problem. No one really knew her. Not really.

Braeden gestured again and Scott walked over, stopping next to her, face creepily blank.

“Look how well-behaved he is,” she crooned, stroking a finger across his uneven chin. “This was an unexpected treat really. Something not planned for at all, but very convenient. Sometimes we just get lucky, I guess.”

“He's like that because of the the beast, isn’t he?”

All heads snapped in Stiles' direction. He more sensed than saw their confusion.

“What are you talking about, Stiles?” asked Lydia, shaking her head. “We defeated the beast. It’s gone. It’s-”

She paused suddenly, eyes widening. Braeden slow clapped, throwing in a mocking “bravo.”

“Oh my god,” she gasped, staring at Stiles in horror. “Scott interacted with it. He’s infected, isn’t he? And you knew?”

He shook his head desperately. “No! No, I didn’t _know_. I just -.”

There was no escaping it. The truth had a nasty tendency to come out eventually. He should have learned his lesson with Donovan. 

“I - I suspected it,” Stiles admitted, avoiding looking at any of them. “I thought I saw something in his eyes once. A black swirl of sorts. But I was never really sure. He was different after it happened, but come on guys! You were all there - well, most of you,” he added with a shrug at Malia. “You all saw how he reacted when the beast turned out to be Allison. It hit him hard. I thought he was grieving and depressed. It was the logical solution, and for once I wanted to take a page out of Scott’s book and try to not see shadows on all the walls. Give people the benefit of the doubt. For fuck's sake, it's Scott!”

“And a hearty thank you for that.” Braeden tipped an invisible hat in his direction. “It allowed for us to operate largely without any scrutiny or suspicion. Don't worry,” she added, cocking her head, regarding them like grownups faced with clueless children. "It'll wear off eventually. But not until I've done what I came here to do."

Relief flooded through him despite the seriousness of the situation. Stiles had no way of knowing if Braeden was telling the truth, but he clung to the hope like a man starving. 

"And what exactly are you planning here?" asked Lydia sharply. Braeden simply shook her head and shrugged. 

They were at standstill. Derek, Stiles, Malia, Lydia, Danny - all virtually powerless to do anything as long as Braeden had Scott under her thumb. Without knowing the whys or the hows of what she was planning, they had little choice but to wait and see. It was a concept Stiles was very uncomfortable with. Sadly, Braeden didn’t seem to have the same penchant for theatrics and villainous monologues as Valack had. Basically, they had no clue what her endgame was.

“Now what?”

Derek was the one to break the silence. Braeden cocked her head, a smirk playing on her lips.

“Now we wait,” she said silkily, flipping the shotgun jauntily over one shoulder.

“Wait for what exactly?”

“You’ll see soon enough.”

Stiles bit his tongue to avoid screaming. Could she possibly be more vague? Clearly, she'd hung out with Deaton for too long. Some of his evasiveness had clearly rubbed off. Malia kept throwing accusations and insults at Braeden, but they peeled off her like she was made of Teflon. Lydia tried to appeal to her sense of pride and cleverness, but to no avail. In short, they were getting nowhere. 

Stiles briefly entertained the idea of throwing some of his magic mojo at her, but to be honest his stunt with Peter had drained him pretty good. Lydia could little do, and even if Malia and Derek combined could shred Braeden into minced meat in a matter of seconds, there was no guarantee she wouldn’t kill Scott in the process.

“For fuck’s sake! Say something! Anything!”

Malia was red-faced and panting. Braeden looked unaffected and serene. Also slightly insane, but that might just be Stiles projecting.

“Patience, Malia,” she said smoothly.

Yeah. No. Patience was not one of Stiles’ strong suits. Something needed to be done, and that soon.

The sky cracked with lightning again, thunder following closely. Once again Stiles thought he detected a slight flicker in the air surrounding Breaden. It was just a split second, but he could’ve sworn he'd seen a small ripple. Almost like a tiny glitch in the Matrix. The hairs on his back stood on end, his stomach churning in a way he’d now learned not to doubt. He’d failed Scott. He was not about to repeat his mistake.

“What are you doing?” hissed Derek. He’d obviously picked up on Stiles’ little squirms. He was doing his best to be subtle, but with the injuries still hampering most of his movements he wasn’t doing a particularly good job. Which also meant, there was a good chance Braeden would notice.

“I think I brought - yes,” he murmured, biting his tongue to avoid the gleeful whoop he wanted to let out. Derek might not understand what Stiles was up to, but he still played along without question. 

“Was it all a fake?”

Derek's question startled Braeden. "Was it all an act?" he continued flatly, shifting slightly so that he partially blocked Stiles from view. If he wasn’t busy planning a potentially dangerous move, Stiles would’ve kissed him.

“The time you rescued Peter and me? Hunting for the Desert Wolf? Helping us find Kate? Helping them in Mexico? _Us_?”

The last word stabbed Stiles to the heart, despite knowing that this Derek - _his Derek_ , never had a relationship with Braeden. Evidently, it also affected her.

“What does it matter?” she asked, her carefully blank facade showing tiny signs of cracking.

“So, the end justifies the means, is that what you’re saying?” Derek inched closer, just a fraction. But it was enough. Stiles was, for the time being, out of Braeden’s line of vision.

“Something like that,” she said dismissively. “You might as well quit while you’re ahead. I’m not one of those silly comic book villains, aching for an opportunity to wax poetic about my diabolical plan. Besides,” she added haughtily. “Who’s to say I’m the villain? For all you know, I might be saving the world.”

“By forcing open a portal to a parallel universe? To what end? How will that save anything? So far, it only seems to cause trouble.”

“You wouldn’t understand. I’m not gonna waste my time justifying this. It will be done, and you can’t stop me!”

“Maybe not,” said Stiles, stepping out from behind Derek, face set in fierce determination. “But at the very least I want to know who I’m really dealing with!”

In a surprisingly smooth motion, Stiles flicked his wrist, sending a spray of white fine-powdered dust into the air. It spread out like a fan, hurtling through the air, straight for Braeden. Soon she was engulfed in it, lightning intensifying overhead. Through the cloudy mist spiraling angrily around her, painful shrieks could be heard. Stiles stared at the display with a terrifying sense of deja vu. When a familiar face suddenly materialized in the fray and between puffs of smoke, a wave of gasps echoed throughout the clearing.

When the tornado finally lost momentum and faded, Braeden was crouched on the ground, panting. Gone was the overconfident smirk.

“ _You_ ,” snarled Derek, eyes flashing blue. 

“Fuck me, I didn’t want to be right about this.” Stiles was tearing at his hair, laughing hysterically.

“Someone please tell what the fuck that was!”

Malia was yelling. Lydia’s mouth hanging open slightly, a hand clasped at her throat protectively. The last time they had met, Lydia had come close to dying.

“It’s the darch. It's Jennifer Blake. That explains why I thought caught a whiff of her scent the other day.” Derek’s voice was steely. Dangerous. “I thought you killed her,” he snarled angrily, glancing at Peter who, incredibly, hadn’t said a word during this whole procedure.

“I did.”

“Well, you did a crap job,” said Stiles sarcastically. “No offense or anything.”

Peter looked affronted. “I did kill her. I made damn sure she was stone cold dead. Then I buried her deep in the woods. There is no conceivable way she survived that.”

“How can you be sure -”

“I ripped her into pieces, Stiles!” Peter’s voice was steely, all traces of his usual bravado gone. “The parts are scattered over a five mile radius, buried under mistletoe, mountain ash and a twig of wolfsbane just to be triple sure. That’s how I know. That cannot possibly be her!”

While they’d been arguing, the darach, still wearing Braeden’s face, had gotten to her feet again. She was still panting, rivulets of sweat dripping from her chin. Stiles noticed what looked like tiny spasms curling through her body, making her shiver slightly. That didn’t stop her from holding a very scary-looking knife to Scott’s throat, though. In the heat of the moment, they’d missed their window of opportunity to disarm and disable her. Derek didn’t seem to have notice yet. He was still arguing with Peter.

“Then how do you explain the fact that she’s still here, alive and well?”

“It's not her, Derek! It's not the Jennifer you remember!”

Lydia’s voice cut through the fray with surprising effect despite her words were barely spoken above a whisper. She stepped forward, eyes alight with realization. Peter beamed like a proud mentor.

“That’s right, Lydia,” he said warmly. “It’s not her.”

Realization hit Stiles just as Malia burst out “I don't get it.” He sank to his knees, nauseated and horrified, feeling as if the ground had been ripped from under him. It was so obvious. Claudia and Talia wasn't the only ones to have come over from the other side... For a few seconds the world faded, sound muffled, and he just was. When he snapped out of it, Lydia was in the middle of getting the others up to speed. 

“It’s the darach - it’s just not the darach from this universe,” said Lydia. “Peter killed her. Killed our Jennifer. You killed her right here, didn't you? On the Nemeton?”

Peter nodded. “Yes. In hindsight, that was probably not such a good idea.”

“Understatement,” muttered Stiles dizzily, shaking off the earth shattering thoughts clouding his mind. “Blood on the Nemeton - so, that’s what’s needed to open up the portal?”

Braeden - Jennifer - darach - god, whatever nodded.

“Yes. Blood is needed. Usually copious amounts of it, as well. Since I came to this world I've discovered that was what my counterpart was doing - offering blood to the Nemeton. She’d been doing it for a while, gradually breaking open the seal. I’m not sure if that was her intention, or if it was just an unlucky side effect. A Nemeton is powerful in itself. A Nemeton hiding a portal is - well, I guess you can imagine. I will probably never know what her endgame was. The result was still the same. I was ripped from my world and pushed into this one.”

“Did you know about this?”

Derek had turned on Peter again, who raised his arms while shaking his head.

“Derek, I swear I did not know anything about this. Not until recently.”

“What’s that supposed to mean exactly? If you’ve known for a while, why didn’t you say anything? Why didn’t you help us?”

Peter glared indignantly. “Who’s to say I haven’t?”

“Leaving a cryptic trail of odd books and DVDs hardly count,” said Lydia venomously.

“I understand you’re miffed,” replied Peter with an air of impatience. “And I would’ve told you sooner, but I needed to get the facts straight myself before I approached you. Initially, I was operating with very unreliable sources. I didn’t want to send you into danger unless I was certain. I started sending the books as soon as the picture became clearer to me.”

He sighed deeply, gesturing to Stiles.

“I even activated your powers, just to be on the safe side. You’re welcome, by the way,” he added snootily. Stiles flashed him the finger.

“Fuck you. You told me Derek was in mortal peril and locked me in a cell. Hardly qualifies as sound help in my book.”

“Well, it did unlock your powers at any rate.”

“Children, please!” interrupted Lydia angrily. “Can we please keep to the topic at hand? I for one would really like to get all the facts here.” She glared around the clearing. Peter looked particularly smug. Braeden was still holding on to Scott, but some of the initial air seemed to have gone out of her as well.

“Go on,” said Lydia when it was clear that no one would interrupt again. Peter bowed deeply like a Medieval prince. Stiles gagged and threw up a little in his mouth.

“When I was put in Eichen house - for the second time, thank you so very much for that by the way,” he added nastily. Stiles grinned like a Cheshire cat. Peter ignored him.

“In Eichen I was forced to share a cell with a patient named Valack that I know you've both encountered and eviscerated. Kudos for that, by the way. As I’m sure you’re all aware, he was not the most stable of sorts. He also had this third eye on his forehead that he forced me to look into. That eye…” Peter shuddered. “That eye had a nasty ability of unlocking suppressed memories. Usually the kind of trauma you’d much rather keep buried forever. For me, it unlocked a curious set of memories that I at first had a hard time coming to grips with. Much of it involved situations and places I couldn’t recollect ever experiencing. As you can imagine Valack was of no help, opting to leave me wallowing in my own thoughts and nightmares. I suspect he took great pleasure in that.”

Peter paused, looking uncharacteristically pensive. Stiles felt a wave of something akin to sympathy, which was unexpected. This was Peter, after all.

“When Valack broke out, it allowed for me to escape as well. I immediately began trying to figure out my growing suspicion - that I didn’t really belong here. I had picked up on some of Valack's manic mutterings about parallel worlds. Many of the memories Valack unearthed could be explained by that.  I started to question my own place in all of this. Whether I had been pulled through from another universe. I found some sketchy sources. Nothing that confirmed anything one hundred percent, but enough for me to suspect that the Derek I had spent time with prior to my incarceration was like me - not from this universe.”

He looked directly at Stiles. “That was when I came to you. If I’d told you then that I thought there were two Dereks. Would you’ve believed me?”

Stiles shook his head reluctantly. “No. I wouldn’t.”

Peter smiled sadly. “I suspected as much. What I did know though, was that you cared deeply for Derek and that you’re a curious fucker. However cryptic I might be, you’d still pursue it.”

“Do you mean to say that the other Derek - he wasn’t a clone? He was from another universe?”

It looked like it pained Derek to ask. Peter nodded. “I believe so.”

“Then where did he go? He just vanished?”

Peter shrugged. “I’m not sure. But I have a theory. I can’t be certain, of course, but it’s based on the memories Valack uncovered in me. At first they seemed foreign. Over time pieces started to fit together. New images would come to me in dreams. Other times it would be triggered by a smell, a sound or an image. It was as if it was all there, just filed deep down, locked away. I think that when a person is moved from one universe to another, they will, for a while, have all their recollections and memories from their original life. However, in the cases where you enter a universe where your doppelganger is dead, you gradually retain their memories. It’s the universe’s own way of restoring a sort of balance. That worked well enough for other Derek as long as you were unconscious.  The second you were brought back, a rift in the universe occurred and the intruder, the piece that didn’t fit, was erased.”

Everyone stared at Peter in horror.

“So, he just ceased to exist?” asked Lydia. She looked nauseated by the thought. Peter shook his head.

“No, not bodily. He’s probably still around somewhere. I meant his memories - his sense of belonging here. I think it was all erased. He probably took off, scared and confused.”

“We’ve looked for him. There are APBs out. I’m not sure I believe that,” said Stiles skeptically. “We would’ve found him by now.”

Peter shrugged. “Like I said, it’s a theory. I can’t be certain.”

“So, you're implying you're not from here,” said Derek. “You're not my uncle Peter?”

Peter smiled. “That’s correct. I’m not. I was switched.”

“Switched?”

Stiles looked at him dubiously. Honestly, this was starting to resemble a Spanish daytime soap. Switched bodies, evil twins. All that was missing was someone returning from the dead. No, scratch that. They already had that, sort of, with the darach. Who needed cable TV with this much drama just a few miles out of town!

“Yes. In fact, you were there when it happened. You and Derek both. But you might not remember it,” Peter added.

Stiles’ jaw dropped.

“Oh my god! At the hospital! When I came to find you and we realized you were the alpha - Derek,” he turned around, wide-eyed. “The Doctors came and did something to you, to all of us.”

Peter nodded. “You all thought the killings were done out of revenge. In a way they were, but it was Jennifer - the original darach’s, way of camouflaging what she was really up to. She’d been helping the doctors trying to turn the comatose Peter into the beast, posing as his nurse to gain access. In reality, that Peter didn’t kill anyone. He didn’t even kill Laura. He was simply used to lure her into the preserve. It was Jennifer who killed her, on the Nemeton. Laura’s blood was the first step to opening a portal. They realized I was a good candidate for the beast, but the Peter of this world was too damaged. His body wouldn’t heal, largely because his mind was broken. With a host that promising, they had the brilliant idea to switch bodies. The more people they killed, the more the portal opened. It was easier back then. The Nemeton was basically without a real guardian. The blood didn’t even need to be spilled directly on it. As long as the victims died on one of the many telluric currents, that did the trick.”

“So, who exactly bit Scott? It couldn’t have been you, then?”

Peter smiled sadly. “I’m not really sure, but I suppose it was Peter. He was out in the woods that night.”

“But if he didn’t kill Laura, then he couldn’t have been an alpha? It makes no sense.”

Lydia was pacing in circles, waving her hands around in frustration.

“Like I said,” replied Peter tiredly. “I don’t know. Maybe we’ll never know. Perhaps the Dread Doctors managed to synthesize an alpha-state for Peter? Maybe Scott was a special case. He did turn out to be a true alpha after all. It’s not really the focus of this story anyway.”

For a moment no one said anything. It was a lot to take in. Sadly, Peter wasn’t done yet.

“As I began digging around, I learned more and more about ways to create such portals, not to mention the dangers that comes with them. I also realized my own mistake. Killing Jennifer on the Nemeton. I began to suspect it had consequences. That it had opened the portal again, and that someone could have slipped through.”

He laughed mirthlessly looking dejected and worn. It made him look human and frail, causing Stiles to almost feel sympathetic. Almost.

“I must admit I didn’t suspect Jennifer 2.0 had come through that night. Honestly, that reveal surprised even me. I did however suspect someone else…”

He let the sentence trail off into the air, his gaze falling on one among them.

“Wolf and emissary.”

Malia’s voice was hollow and flat. “That’s what the Dread Doctors said in my memory. You were the wolf, the darach was the emissary. There was blood on the Nemeton.”

Stiles’ heart broke as the realization hit him. Her memory from reading the Dread Doctors book suddenly made a lot for sense. Waking up, human and confused by the Nemeton. Turning into a coyote first after the Doctors had done something to her... Come to think of it, there had never been any reports of coyotes running around the Preserve until after Jennifer disappeared...

“I’m not from here, am I?” she said, voice breaking.

Peter shook his head. “No, you're not. I’m sorry.”

Malia's breath hitched. Stiles’ chest felt tight. Like something heavy and dangerous was sitting on top of him, suffocating him with each breath he took.

“If it’s any consolation, I do think I’m actually your father,” he offered. “We got that part right, even if the world is wrong.”

Malia snorted. “It’s not.”

It might have been a trick of the light, but Stiles thought for a moment Peter actually looked genuinely disappointed.

“What do we do now?” asked Stiles, deliberately ignoring the latest revelation. He whirled towards Braeden-Jennifer whatsherface.

“Why are you trying to open this portal again exactly? What’s the consequences of doing that? What are you trying to achieve? What are we trying to prevent? I don’t know about you, but I’ve completely lost sense of what’s right and wrong here!"

  
“Let me offer you some clarity.”

  
Morrell stepped into the clearing, gliding smoothly across the dewy grass like an elvish princess. All that were missing were some pointy ears and a melodious language no one understood. The way she often spoken in riddles it wasn’t really that far off.

“Oh, great,” mumbled Lydia darkly. “Just what we need, more talk of balance.”

 “Balance is in fact key, Ms. Martin.” Morrell smiled morosely, stopping more or less in the center of the open space, expertly side-stepping both Peter’s mountain ash prison and Jennifer’s stronghold, where Scott was still held at knife-point.

“My role is to guide the elements in a direction that ensures the scales never tip too far to one side or the other. Living in proximity to a powerful Nemeton makes this a particularly challenging undertaking.”

“Forgive me for my skepticism, but you’ve hardly been very proactive in this matter,” interrupted Lydia, her disdain dripping heavily off each syllable.

“I applaud your analytical approach, Lydia. Every group needs such a force. It’s vital to the balance of the entity. You all play a part, both in a pack and on a larger macro level. This town has struggled for a long time, largely because this power hub, which the Nemton is, lacked a proper guardian. A key to keep it in check. With Stiles that piece of the puzzle fell into place. All that remains now is to give him the power and knowledge to do two things.”

“And what pray tell is that?” Lydia still looked far from convinced.

“Firstly, Stiles will need to open it, allowing the ones who don’t belong here to go home,” said a new voice. Stiles whirled around to see Alan Deaton had appeared behind the fake Breaden. He laid a hand on her shoulder and she visibly shrunk like a child scolded. The knife dropped to the forest floor. Next, Scott’s eyes flickered, then he shuddered slightly, like a wet dog trying to get dry. When he opened his eyes again, he looked around in confusion, as if he’d just woken from a deep slumber.

“What’s going on?” he asked woozily. Deaton patted his shoulder paternally.

“I’ll explain later,” he said softly, then turned to Jennifer with a scowl. “I’m disappointed in you, Julia. This was not part of our deal.”

She hung her head, muttering something under her breath.

“Excuse me!”

Lydia’s voice was getting dangerously close to banshee-levels. “Someone better explain what the HELL is going on here, and that fast!”

“All Julia, or Jennifer as you know her by, wants is to go home. When she first got here, she instantly sought me out. In her world, my counterpart and she are close colleagues, and her mind has not turned dark. Together we figured out what had happened. I recommended she choose another face than her original one to move around freely without causing distress and confusion.”

“There goes your theory about losing memories of the other side, Peter,” stage whispered Stiles. Peter didn’t even have time to retort before Deaton interjected.

“Peter’s theory isn’t entirely wrong. Most people who cross over, adopts the memories lingering from their counterpart if that person is dead, comatose or otherwise unresponsive. If the other part is alive, the one crossing over, will sooner or later, lose all memories, new and old. It’s the world’s way of protecting itself. There are however, exceptions. Julia is one of them. Perhaps because she’s an emissary. We don’t really know. She wanted to get back, which I encouraged. Her presence was causing disturbances and cracks. But we didn’t know how to achieve that. Not without resorting to killing, and that is not our way. Our work was also hampered by Valack and his Dread Doctors, wanting to open up the Nemeton and harvest its powers for vastly different reasons.”

Deaton’s face was emotionless as always, despite the somewhat heartfelt tale.

“So, you chose Breaden’s face? Does that mean that the Braeden from our world is dead?”

“Sadly, yes,” said Morrell. “I was her mentor, and Deucalion killed her. Since this was not a widely known fact, we felt it could be beneficial for Julia to take that role. Braeden was well-known in the supernatural community. It also allowed us to let her near you without suspicions since few of you had actually met her counterpart. We knew there was a rip in the fabric, several actually, but we needed time and access to find out who had come through. We had our suspicions, but needed proof. Braeden became our spy. It’s why she forged a relationship with Derek and offered to help Malia. We wanted to get closer to them, to perform some subtle tests that would either confirm or deny our suspicions.”

Stiles shook his head. Lydia looked like she was about to explode at any second. 

“So what you’re basically saying is that this Jennifer is a “good person” who just wants to help restore balance and return home to her planet?”

Morrell nodded. “In a manner of speaking, yes.”

“Then please,” said Stiles pinching his nose in anger, “explain why you sauntered in here like an über-villain, dragging with you a clearly mind-controlled Scott, held him at knife-point and acted like a grade A douche!”

Braeden’s face crumpled into a hereto unseen grimace of remorse.

“I can’t explain that. I just - “ She let out a frustrated growl. “I just grew impatient! I want this over with! Scott was just - I dunno, a means to an end. I just wanted to do it! To open the portal and get back! So I brought him, as a bargaining chip in case you people tried to stop me. It was - stupid.”

“Damned straight it was,” growled Derek. 

"You said there were two parts," said Stiles angrily, turning towards Morrell. " Opening the portal was the first. Let me take a wild guess - the other part is locking it down, right?" She nodded. Stiles took a deep breath, steeling himself. "For good? No return flights, one-way ticket?”

“Correct,” confirmed Morrell with a somber smile. “That’s your part, too.”

“Thanks, I kind of got that,” he retorted flatly. “Right now I’m more concerned about the part where we open it. It’s ajar now, I know that because I keep wanting to puke my brains out every five minutes or so. That needs to stop and soon! Or I swear, my mind will split, too. But if opening it means killing people and smearing blood all over it, I’m dead against that.”

Morrell shook her head firmly.

“No killing. We found another way. That’s why it’s taken so long. We needed time to come up with a workaround. Sadly, it’s not perfect, and I’m sorry to say I think you’ve bored the brunt of this method, Stiles. We didn’t foresee the Nemeton reacting like it did, and reaching out to you so violently. Your bond is stronger than anticipated.”

“No shit, Sherlock,” he spat. “I don’t want my chest burned to a crisp again, alright.”

Morrell smiled. “I think we can avoid that if you’re the one to open it. It will recognize you and allow for it. We’ve been trying to pick it, and have ended up hurting you in the process. I do apologize for that.”

“Not good enough,” snarled Derek. “I want to know what this plan is before we agree to anything.”

“Naturally.”

Morrell gestured for them to follow her.

“The portal is fueled by blood sacrifice. Still, we didn’t want to continue down that path. There’s been enough murders in this town. Which meant we needed to find a loophole.”

“That sounds ominous.”

Lydia’s tone had lost some of it’s bite. Evidently, her curiosity was stronger than her open disdain for the emissaries.

Deaton bowed his head, nodding minutely.

“You’re not wrong. Loopholes are generally dangerous to pursue, and for good reason. We did not enter into this lightly. Still, we felt it was time to intervene. While you’ve done well in fending off the threats that have arisen, the fact remains people and creatures will continue to gravitate here as long as the Nemeton is active and the imbalance between the worlds keep sending out alluring frequencies.”

“I’m afraid to ask,” said Stiles to no one in particular.

“What did you do?” snarled Derek.

“We tracked down the Desert Wolf,” said Deaton conversationally. Not-Braeden nodded along, much like a puppet.

“We knew the Nemeton required blood. We didn’t want to kill anyone, so we figured finding someone who would heal fast was preferable. Marin had this theory, and -” He trailed off, looking sheepish.

“And what exactly?” asked Lydia sharply. Stiles noted in horror that a hand was on her hip. Oh lord. All that was lacking - yup, and there it was. The hip tilt! She was officially pissed!

“My theory was right.”

Morrell seemed to float across the clearing, heading for the crate Scott had dragged with him and that everyone had completely forgotten about since. She flipped open the lid, bent over and grabbed hold of whatever was inside. Behind him, Stiles heard Malia gasp in realization.

“That’s the scent!”

She all but sprinted over, coming to a screeching halt a few feet away. “That’s the scent that brought me here! The one I’ve been smelling every once in a while.” Her eyes bugged further. “This is the crate you brought in Braeden’s truck! The one that caused me so much pain! It's her isn't it. My mom? The Desert Wolf.”

“I am very sorry about that.”

As always his words stood in sharp contrast to his tone of voice. No one would ever accuse Alan Deaton of being a passionate speaker.

“She’s a dangerous assassin and a ruthless killer. We had to take every precaution while transporting her. I didn’t really think there would be such a strong bond between the two of you. Not when you’re essentially not even from the same world.”

“So, you used her blood. Just not enough to kill her?” asked Stiles. The idea made him feel sick. The Desert Wolf was undoubtedly a horrible person, but this seemed unnecessarily cruel.

“We did. The idea was that she had so much blood on her hands - literally - that it would serve as an extra catalyst. There seemed to be some truth to that theory, but it was still slow going. We went out as often as we could, but needed to wait for her to heal. Then there was the additional hitch with the Nemeton’s defenses and how that directly affected Stiles. Not to mention the endless guards you sent out.”

“So you sent Scott to do your bidding? Is that right? You took advantage of the residue from the beast to control him.”

Deaton nodded. A ghost of remorse danced across his face, but were gone before Stiles could pin them down. Perhaps he'd just imagined it?

“I did. He was part of your rotation, which proved helpful to us. I noticed as soon as I got back that he’d been tainted by the remnants of the beast. It rendered him easy to manipulate.”

"And you knew about this?" Stiles whirled on Morrell, shaking with ill-suppressed rage. "I expected this shit from Deaton, but you - I actually defended you!! And now I find out you sat in my living room, discussing therapy and grief-counselling, knowing exactly what was wrong with him?"

"No, I didn't know," said Morrell calmly. "I was unaware of Scott's predicament at the time. I I hadn't seen him. If I had, perhaps I would've recognized the symptoms. You asked me about that later, remember. In one of our sessions. If it was possible to be infected. I hadn't considered it until that point." 

"And when you found out you did nothing?"

She shook her head. "No, I talked to Alan. We came up with a treatment plan."

Deaton nodded somberly. "He responded favorably. It would take time, but the residue was leaving his body. It wasn't until you set up the guards around the Nemeton that we stopped it. Just temporarily, allowing for us to use Scott to enter the area without suspicion. The plan was always to finish the treatment once the portal had been open and the guests had left."

“Poisoning Kira? That was you too?” Malia’s claws were out, her words somewhat slurred by her elongated teeth. Morrell for her part looked aghast, which was perhaps the most human expression Stiles had ever seen on her.

“Goodness, no! I have no knowledge of this.”

She glared in Jennifer’s direction. She in turn simply huffed, crossing her arms.

“I couldn’t wait any longer! Scott told me Kira was on duty this afternoon. So I sent him to make sure she didn’t come. In hindsight, I guess I took it a bit too far. I never meant for her to be hurt.”

“ _You guess_?” shrieked Lydia. “This whole situation is preposterous! I can’t believe we’re about to open a portal and what - send our friend to another dimension?”

She let out a strangled whimper.

“I’m afraid the alternative is much too unfavorable, Ms. Martin. If you don’t want to go through with it, I can’t force you. I’m just an emissary. My role is to guide and facilitate. We’ve overstepped our bounds enough as it is. We leave it up to you to decide what happens next.”

Without another word Deaton and Morrell moved towards the outskirts of the clearing, dragging a protesting Jennifer with them. The rest was left standing around awkwardly in a huddle, save from Peter who sat slumped inside his circle of mountain ash looking as if a small gust of wind would do him in.

It was Scott who spoke first.

“I think I’ve probably missed half the details, but what I did understand was that we need to decide if we want to reset this thing, or continue with the status quo, only with increasing number of enemies to look forward to.”

“Yeah, pretty much that,” said Stiles tiredly. “Malia, you alright?”

She shook her head, but didn’t say anything. Stiles quite frankly didn’t know what to say either, so he just let her be. It was clear none found the idea of saying goodbye to Malia forever particularly appealing.

“I can’t believe we’re even discussing this.” Lydia shook her head. “Draining a werecoyote! Sending away Malia! It’s - no! We can’t do that!”

“We can’t keep on fighting monsters and enemies left and right like we have the last couple of years either,” said Derek reluctantly. “It’s a miracle there hasn’t been more deaths as it is. I’ve lost too many already. I don’t want to live in constant fear this magnet will lure even worse shit here, never really relaxing. Always looking over my shoulder for the next threat. Constantly worry about this idiot.”

He grabbed hold of Stiles’ shoulder, squeezing it just a tad to hard. Still, it was reassuring.

“I agree and I don’t.” Stiles wrung his hands nervously. “It’s an impossible choice. How can we choose?”

“Easy,” said Malia. “You don’t choose. I do.”

She turned to Peter, voice wobbly.

“You said you thought you were my father. From that place.”

He nodded.

“Is - .”

Malia stopped, closed her eyes, tilted her head back and drew a deep breath. When her eyes opened again, determination shone as bright as the blue of her coyote eyes.

“Am I adopted there too?”

Peter nodded again. Malia’s breath hitched. “Is - Is my little sister…”

“Alive?” Peter’s word was soft. Malia nodded.

“She is,” he confirmed. “I have memories of you and her. I have visitations,” he added with a smile. “We usually go running together every full moon. She sometimes tags along despite being human. She loves it.”

Tears were streaming down Malia’s cheeks. Lydia was shaking her head, tears welling in her eyes as well. Stiles felt numb. He recognized the determination. She’d made up her mind.

“I’ll go,” she said to Morrell. “If Stiles can open the portal, I’ll leave with Peter.”

“Peter Hale, will you accompany your daughter home?” asked Morrell formally. Peter rose, dusting off his jeans, every ounce of his usual bluster and sassy demeanor long gone.

“I will,” he said somberly.

“Well,” said Deaton matter-off-factly. “Then I guess we have a portal to open.”

Lydia broke down in tears.

 

***

 

His dad sounded honestly relieved when Stiles called him.

“Finally!” he barked. “I was under the impression you would let me know when you located the Nemeton. You’ve been radio silent for hours!”

“Sorry about that,” said Stiles with a wince. “We ran into some unexpected company.”

“You alright?”

Stiles could tell his dad was antsy and worried.

“Sort of,” he admitted with a shrug. “It’s a long-winded and complicated tale, I think we should shelf it for the time being. I do need a teeny favor, though.”

His dad sighed in that put-upon way parents had dibs on.

“Will I regret it?” he asked reluctantly.

“Possibly,” Stiles admitted. “I think we’ll all come out of this a little changed, but sources tell me it’s for the greater good, so…”

“What do you need?”

“For you to bring the visitors. Talia and eh, Claudia.”

The line went silent for a moment.

“Dad? You there?”

Stiles heard a deep sigh on the other end of the line. Finally, his dad replied.

“Yeah, I’m still here. I hope you’ve found a way to get them back where they belong. Quite frankly, they’re starting to creep me out. More than I already was, and I’ll have to admit I didn’t think that was possible.”

“What happened?”

His dad let out a strangled sort of snort.

“Hard to explain really, but their personalities seem to be changing by the minute. Talia was superficial and whimsical when she arrived. Now, she’s ranting about perimeter checks and alpha conventions. And the other one - “

“- has started to act more like mom?”

Stiles heard a hitch, then the line went silent again.

“How did you know?” his dad finally asked breathlessly.

“Apparently they gradually retain the memories and mannerisms of their counterpart in this reality if that person isn’t here anymore. I don’t really know for sure, but I suspect it’s got something to do with frequencies. We all emit them, and everyone has their own unique signature. I think they simply absorb what knowledge was left behind. Unless your counterpart is actually still around, then it becomes a fight for the same resources. The one who belongs to this world typically wins out. The other one is left confused and without any memories at all.”

“Well,” said his dad, drawing the word out in a manner Stiles recognized as the precursor to bad news. "That certainly explains our latest guest."

“Oh, just rip the band-aid off will you! Tell me!”

“We had an, well, I guess you could say interesting person walk into the station not long after you left.”

“Who?”

“The missing Derek.”

 

 ***

 

 

 

“Son, out of all the shitty, horrible, idiotic, possibly-world-destroying plans you’ve ever come up with, this is, by far, the absolute worst!”

Sheriff Stilinski stood arms crossed, looking every bit the part of intimidating cop. The impression was slightly hampered by the odd assortment of people standing behind him, peering curiously at both the Nemeton and the reluctant crowd surrounding it.

“Yeah, I know,” said Stiles, patting him on the back. “Technically though, it’s not really my plan. Just wanted that to be clear, for the record. And you don’t really care, do you?”

“Not even a little,” said his dad in a clipped voice. “I just pray this will solve things, and not blow us to kingdom come.”

“That is probably a real place, you know,” mumbled Stiles. “And I’m shutting up now,” he added when his dad turned abruptly, eyes flashing.

“Alan. Marin.”

The sheriff greeted them morosely. In Ms. Morrell’s case Stiles thought he detected a slight tone of betrayal. That probably meant the burgeoning romance was coming to a screeching halt if nothing else. He couldn’t really say he was all that sorry.

“You really think this is the best course of action?”

The siblings nodded in creepy tandem.

“We do,” said Deaton serenely. “We’re both sworn to help guide towards balance in the world. Truthfully, we haven’t always seen eye to eye on the methods,” he admitted. “In my younger days I tended to get more directly involved than I was supposed to. It - well, it backfired. As a result I cut the Nemeton down, believing it would quell its alluring energies. Sadly, I underestimated both its strength and people’s insatiable thirst for power. Which is why I’ve heeded my sister’s advice, and for the most part, tried to avoid getting directly involved. Instead I’ve done my best to guide and counsel.”

“I wasn’t even aware you were related,” said the sheriff, looking dizzier by the second. “So, you’ve been canoodling in the shadows, using these kids like pawns? That is basically what you’re saying, isn’t it? Do I need to remind you of the body count? I think it’s safe to say your method has been down right abysmal!”

“You tell’em, daddy-o!”

“Shut your pie-hole, Stiles!” he barked.

Stiles stepped back, miming zipping his mouth. Derek rolled his eyes. Yeah, for all the locking Stiles could do with his mind, the only thing he never seemed to be able to control, was his own mouth.

“Sheriff Stilinski, I suggest we either proceed with the plan as quickly as possible, or vacate the premises.”

Morrell had stepped forward, still looking as unruffled as ever. The same could not be said for the sheriff.

“Excuse me for having a moment of crisis,” he barked. “You’re proposing we drain the blood of a werecoyote to open a portal and send these people back.” He stopped, took a deep breath and then shook his head. “You do realize that as an officer of the law, nothing about this is even vaguely within the concept of okay.”

“I do.”

Stiles’ stomach dropped. Morrell’s voice had - well, it had sounded emotional. Scared. That was foreboding as all hell.

“What will happen if we don’t go through with it?” he asked, his self-imposed period of muteness already forgotten. “I get that we’ll continue to be overrun by were-villains and the like, but other than that? Can we in theory just continue as is, stopping the tides before they hit?”

Morrell’s lips pursed, and she looked away, which was answer enough.

“Okay, so there’s more. Why am I not surprised.” Stiles shook his head, taking a step forward. “Tell me!” he yelled, suddenly feeling panicked, as if he could pick up on her discomfort somehow.

“I don’t know.”

“You don’t -!” He threw his hands up with a loud snort. “Somehow I find that hard to believe.”

“Our worlds will collapse.”

They all turned towards the one who’d spoken. Deaton stood hunched near the Nemeton, his hand held aloft over one of the roots.

“They will collide, gradually canceling each other out. It’s already begun,” he said, gesturing towards the ground. Everyone slowly inched forward. Stiles gasped when he saw it. Or rather, didn’t see it.

“Is this what happened to the old factory building down by the riverfront?” he asked, still having trouble comprehending the sight in front of him. Or rather the lack of it.

“Yes.”

“Hold on!”

Stiles’ dad looked at the ground next to the Nemeton - or rather the blank nothingness that seemed to hover midair. It wasn’t just invisible or erased. It was as if a chunk of the preserve was missing, and had virtually left nothing behind.

“So, if we don’t close the portal, this will keep happening?”

Morrell nodded. “We believe so, yes. The worlds are not meant to intersect, or come in contact. Move one object from this side to the other and an imbalance occurs. It can be momentarily patched if a similar mass is moved in the other direction. Keep the portal open for too long, and they begin to gravitate and the mutual collision results in - well, nothingness.”

“Dear lord.”

The sight and the implications seemed to sober the sheriff considerably. After a long moment, he nodded, giving his reluctant permission. The choice seemed to age him by decades. Stiles felt his heart break, a sadness overtaking him quickly and completely.

His dad gestured for the emissaries to begin the process. Stiles turned his back, not wanting to witness the act of draining Malia’s mother of blood, however evil she might be. Instead, he looked to the odd selection of visitors. His mom’s doppelganger was staring at him and his dad with loving eyes, which was a far cry from the scene at the station earlier. The theory about adopting memories seemed to hold true. He broke eye contact quickly, and instead focused on Talia Hale and the missing Derek. Finding each other seemed to have awoken memories in both of them.

“Why did you leave us, Derek?” asked Talia, voice muffled by sobs. “More than a year without so much as a phone call or a text. We had no idea if you were dead or alive!”

“Mom, I’m telling you. I’ve not been avoiding you - I.” He looked around curiously, face still a well of confusion. “I think I’ve been here, wherever this is. I - I just woke up one day in a strange motel room, with no recollection of where I was or who the woman in the bed beside me was. I - dunno. I felt a pull towards this place and day by day I’ve been getting these flashes of memories. Or dreams. I dunno. But I did see you in many of them. A big house, someone named Laura. I think she’s my sister. And Cora.”

Talia’s breath hitched. “Those are both your sisters. Oh, Derek. We’ve been so worried. Paige has been beside herself!”

It was painful to watch the face of other Derek at the mention of Paige's name. Stiles guessed a lot of things were different in that other world. Clearly, it was a place much better for Derek, with his family still alive, no fire, probably no Kate. And he was still with Paige. It was a life without room for Stiles.

“So much for destiny,” he muttered morosely, a sense of sorrow taking hold in his bones.

“Stiles, we need you.”

He felt the warm and calming presence of Derek at his back. His hands came to rest on his shoulders, and it truly was the anchor he needed. He felt fatigued, battered and so, so tired. The process before him would be taxing, and he needed every bit of strength he could get. He welcomed it. Savored it.

“You’ve got this,” Derek murmured encouragingly. “I’ll never leave your side. I’ll be your tether.”

“Thanks,” Stiles mumbled, hardly trusting his own voice. Instead, he spun around engulfing him in a bracing hug, nose muffled in Derek’s neck.

“I love you,” he mumbled, heart about to explode. Derek let out a choked growl and Stiles could feel him smiling against his shoulder. Knew that his face had just split in a blinding smile. The kind that put sunrises to shame. God, he loved that smile.

“I love you too, you doofus.”

Reluctantly Derek let go of the hug, but his hand found Stiles’, weaving their fingers together seamlessly.

Stiles allowed himself to be led towards the Nemeton. On his way he passed first Scott, who looked like someone had kicked his puppy and then run away with it. Stiles really felt bad for him. Scott had been put through an emotional wringer he wouldn’t even wish on his worst enemy.

“It’s okay, buddy,” he said warmly, grabbing onto Scott’s hand with his free one. “You’re okay now. You’ll get through it, I know you will. Shit like this is bad, but you come out of it for the better. Lean on your friends, and it’ll be okay. Be the alpha you want to see in the world, and all that jazz.”

Scott snorted despite the seriousness of the moment.

“You’re such a spaz,” he said fondly. Stiles forced out a self-deprecating smile.

“I aim to please,” he said glibly. Scott squeezed his hand, probably the closest they’d come to actually acknowledging their bro love in years.

Talia, Claudia, other Derek and Peter had already taken up position next to the Nemeton on the far side of the void. Stiles saw, to his great fear, it had grown significantly in just minutes.

Malia stood a little way off, Lydia clinging to her like a red-haired Panda. Malia still looked mostly numb, hands hanging down limply. She was far from unaffected. Her eyes red-rimmed and tears ran down her cheeks like angry rivers. None of Lydia’s pleas seemed to break her resolve, though.

“Please, you can stay here,” sobbed Lydia. “The Malia of this world - she’s in all likelihood dead. Probably killed that night together with your adopted mom and your little sister. We’re missing a Malia here - you can stay! Be our new Malia! I’m - I’m sure it’ll be alright.”

“No, it won’t.” Malia’s voice was oddly calm. “I get it now. Why I can’t remember anything of my childhood. I didn’t have a childhood here. I came here that same night as her -” she pointed to Jennifer who had given up on looking like Braeden and was back to her original face. “The Dread Doctors memory - that was when I first got here. I - I don’t belong here. I need to go.”

“I love you! I’ll miss you,” wailed Lydia. She continued to cling to Lydia, but now she was looking straight at Stiles as well, the words running him through, like a rusted knife. Malia’s only answer was a strangled sob. She then hugged Lydia one last time, before peeling her grip away and more or less running towards the Nemeton. She stopped for a brief moment, looking at Stiles directly, smiling sadly before kissing him on the cheek.

“I’ll always love you,” she muttered, cheeks ablaze. Next she’d taken position beside Peter staring down on the ground.

“We’re ready for you,” said Morrell, gesturing for him to take place on top of the Nemeton. Stiles nodded, taking a deep breath that did nothing to calm his nerves.

“You’ve got this,” said Derek confidently. “I’ll be right here when it’s over.”

Stiles smiled, heart almost beating out of his chest. “I know you will,” he said. Then he kissed him as if he’d never see him again.

Someone cleared his throat.

“Ah, crap. Yeah, I guess - Oh man, I didn’t need to see that.”

Stiles chuckled into Derek’s beard as he reluctantly let go. Derek looked a little dazed.

“Sorry, pops,” he said with a wink, walking over to him. “I promise that was the last time you’ll ever see anything like that again.”

“Empty promises, son. Don’t make them.” His dad shook his head. It was clear though, that he was nervous and worried.

“Is this - safe? It feels like everything could go wrong. This place - “ he twirled a finger around, “is very prone to bad shit.”

“I’ll close it. I promise.”

The sheriff nodded, eyes shining with unadulterated pride. “I know you will, son. You’re a handful, but I wouldn’t have you any other way. Stay safe. And come back to me, okay?”

Stiles choked and hugged his dad so tightly his arms hurt. “I’ll stay safe, I promise,” he said. Then, with great difficulty, he let go and walked away.

“You know what you have to do, don’t you?” asked Morrell somberly as he sat down in the middle of the trunk. When his hands touched the tree, his entire body thrummed with energy.

“I know,” he said.

Stiles glanced around the clearing one last time. Took in the sight of two emissaries that, in their own unique and evasive ways, had taught him more about himself than he’d realized. Looked to Danny, a school and teammate that had known their secrets, and kept his own at great peril to protect a friend. They would get Jackson back. Things would get back to normal for Danny. He deserved it. Deserved their forgiveness and a second chance.

He locked eyes with the man who’d raised him, loved him and help shape him to the person he was today. Saw the unconditional love in his eyes and almost collapsed from the force of it. Stiles almost couldn’t bare to look towards the last two, but did it anyway. Derek looked proud, confident and so fucking hot, it took his breath away. Lydia - Lydia looked pissed as all hell!

“Ah fuck,” he mumbled, pressing his palms harder down, feeling the energy pick up. Feeling the currents coil and boil all around him, round and round in an increasingly faster maelstrom. Like a storm it built and built. In the center though, everything was calm - like the eye of the storm. An eye that slowly began opening, light pouring out of it. Blinding and bright. It grew and grew, the crescendo of power so loud in Stiles’ ears he almost didn’t hear Lydia’s yells of outrage.

Almost.

“Hurry,” he yelled to the crowd behind him. “I can’t keep it open for long!”

They looked apprehensive, but Peter squared his shoulders, gave Stiles a curt nod and began walking. As he approached the light, he held out a hand for Malia. She locked eyes with Stiles one final time. Next they were gone in the whiteness of the opening.

“Come on! Go!” he screamed. Claudia, Talia and Derek soon began to walk, too. Stiles felt the strain of keeping it open start to take its toll.

It was time.

“Don’t you fucking dare!”

He glanced sideways and barely made out the lithe form of Lydia, struggling against Morrell and Deaton who were holding her back. She looked like an angry baby-dragon determined to set the world ablaze.

“You self-sacrificing piece of shit! Don’t you dare! You belong here, Stiles! Don’t you dare! Don’t go!”

“What’s she talking about?”

Stiles closed his eyes, blocking out Derek’s voice. If he looked…

“I’m sorry,” he whispered, voice choked. “I’m so sorry.”

Then he leapt into the light, releasing his hold, closing the portal behind him for good.

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please, don't kill me...


	22. Chapter 22

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please leave all sharp objects at the door.

It had been four months, two weeks, three days and 11 hours since Stiles stepped through the portal and was never seen again.

It had been three months, three week, two days and 5 hours since Derek had finally accepted the truth. That Stiles was truly gone and would never return.

In the time between those points, he’d spent every waking and sleeping moment right there. By the Nemeton. Day and night. He’d refused to leave, not even to eat or sleep. They’d all taken turns to plead and reason with him. In the end, the sheriff had succumbed. Perhaps too exhausted and worn down by his own grief, he’d dumped down beside Derek and stayed. They remained side by side in mutual suffering for days, never really speaking, only hoping. Praying. Existing. The others had come and gone, bringing food, drinks, and pleads for them to leave. In the end they'd given up, and simply accepted their decision.

Derek had appreciated and hated the Sheriff’s company it in equal measures. Most of all he’d hated himself. For not seeing it coming. For not realizing what Stiles was about to do. In hindsight, the signs were so clear. Stiles’ somber mood towards the end. How he’d taken extra precaution to say goodbye to them, one by one. 

Lydia had realized it, of course, if only too late. She’d spent two whole days next to Derek crying and apologizing. 

“I realized it too late. Somehow I didn’t think he’d go through with it,” she’d sobbed. “I thought he’d find a loophole. Or just defy reason. It’s what he normal does. I just - I was wrong, and I’m sorry.”

Derek didn’t blame her, though. Not really. He knew all to well that if Stiles had made up his mind about something, he’d go through with it, even if it killed him. Derek’s only consolation was that Stiles was probably safe and sound back in the other world. The world were he truly belonged. In fact, he should consider himself lucky. He’d been allowed to be with hi, and love him for a short while. Their relationship had been awesome and defied worlds. It simply wasn’t meant to last.

The two people Derek did blame, though, were Deaton and Morrell. If they hadn’t been so proficient with mountain ash, he probably would’ve killed them both.

“It was the only way,” Deaton had explained calmly as Derek struggled to break through the invisible barrier. “We deeply regret how it played out. In hindsight we probably should've showed our cards earlier, asked for help instead of operating in the shadows. It's just not the way we've been taught to operate."

Derek had been so angry words failed him. Nothing they could say or do, would make him forgive them.

"You saw what the imbalance was doing to this world," said Deaton, head bowed. "Stiles - this Stiles, didn’t really belong here. For him to stay, it would be risking it all slowly breaking open again. His presence would probably, over time, create more pockets of void. We couldn’t risk it.”

What they didn’t understand was that there was still huge pockets of voids, not because Stiles hadn’t left, but because he had. The biggest of them inside Derek and the Sheriff. Those wounds would never heal. That much he knew. He was forever unbalanced.

For the first few days Derek and the Sheriff just sat there in self-imposed vigil, not speaking much. They simply existed in mutual grief, wallowing in pain. Gradually, the silence was broken. First by the Sheriff. Little stories about Stiles as a kid. Mostly tales of unintended mayhem and destruction. They hurt to hear, like picking at open wounds. Eventually they lured out little snorts of laughter. The first few times it happened, Derek felt like flinging himself into an abyss. How could he find amusement at all? It felt like a betrayal somehow. The stories weren't really about his Stiles anyway. Not the one he'd entered a relationship with. When he really wanted to torture himself, Derek wondered if this - if _they_ would've happened at all if this Stiles - the buzz-haired kid he'd met in the Preserve for what felt like several lifetimes ago - hadn't disappeared.  In his darkest moments he was sure the answer would be no. That version of Stiles had adored Lydia and despised Derek.  In rare moments of clarity Derek knew that wasn't really the case. Original Stiles had cared. Had saved his life. Had helped him look for Erica and Boyd. Had saved Cora. He cared. Perhaps he could even end up loving Derek. The more Derek thought about it, the more trouble he had separating the two. In his mind, Stiles was like a force of nature, a state of being and a constant that not even time or space could alter. 

Little by little Derek accepted that memories and laughter wouldn’t take the pain away. Still, it made things slightly more bearable, if only for a short while. The pain was permanent, that much he knew. But pain was welcome. Pain meant something of Stiles was still around: Derek's love for him. Sorrow was the price you paid for loving someone. His gran had said that. Derek hadn’t thought much about it at the time. Now it was all he had.

The Sheriff returned home after about a week, yet Derek stayed, still clinging to the hope Stiles would suddenly, magically, reappear. It was what he did best after all. Magic. The idea of Stiles returning with no one to greet him, was unbearable.

He didn't lack for visitors, and yet it still took a few weeks before Derek was even interested in talking to an anyone about what had happened. It was, surprisingly, a visit from Scott that finally broke the dam.

It had taken almost a week and a half before he turned up. The first time he came was with Liam. They’d brought homemade chicken soup and garlic bread. It had been eaten in near silence. Liam had tried to instigate a conversation a few times, but soon gave up. It was awkward, painful and just a little bit nice. Somehow Scott’s presence had calmed Derek’s mind almost as much as the presence of the Sheriff. Aside from Stiles’ dad, Scott was probably the one who knew him best and also missed him as much as they did.

The next few times Scott came alone. At first he just talked a bit about school. Briefly mentioned how Lydia had graduated early and barricaded herself in her room, reading everything she could get her hands on about parallel worlds, the time-space continuum and every other fringe science she hoped could be of use. Kira and Scott had broken up, but were still friends. Theo had up and left. No one knew where, and no one cared. 

Derek was perhaps most surprised to hear that Scott had quit his job at Deaton's. 

"I dunno," he said with a shrug when Derek asked why.  "I think this whole thing finally opened my eyes. Stiles was right all along. Deaton was sketchy. He kept stuff from us. Used us. Used me. He swears his intentions were honorable, and perhaps that's true. I just don't know how I can trust him at all after that."

"So, that's it? You're giving up on becoming a vet?"

They'd lost so much. It seemed pointless for Scott to lose his dream in the process. Scott shook his head.

"No, that's still the plan. I'm volunteering at the animal shelter instead. It doesn't pay, but it looks great on my college applications. And it still allows me to care for animals, which is most important after all."

Derek felt honestly happy for him.

“Jackson’s out of Eichen House,” Scott announced on his fifth. He’d brought leftover lasagna and a blanket. Derek appreciated it even if he didn’t know how to express it. This news made his heart skip, though. Scott must have picked up on it, because he hurriedly shared all the details he knew.

Apparently, Sheriff Stilinski and Lydia had gathered enough circumstantial evidence to get him a search warrant. Jackson had been discovered, malnourished and disoriented in a cell on the lowest basement level. They still didn’t know what had happened to his parents. For the time being he was staying with Lydia and her mom. Eichen House had been shut down pending a formal investigation of all their activities. Argent had come to town, helping the sheriff relocate all the supernatural creatures to a secure location outside the city limits. Together they planned to assess all cases, trying to find better solutions. Morrell had offered her services. They'd reluctantly agreed, but had brought in another emissary as well via Satomi's pack as a safeguard and second opinion. 

“I think he’ll be okay,” said Scott with a soft smile. “He’s still Jackson. You know - a huge douche. But,” he shrugged. “I dunno, he seems mellower somehow. I guess long stretches of time locked up in a basement will do that to you. He even asked about Stiles and was shocked when he heard what happened. They never got along, so yeah. He’s better.”

The mention of Stiles had stung, still Derek was glad to hear Jackson was on the road to getting better.

“He asked about you,” admitted Scott a while later. “He wants to come see you. Would that be, I dunno. Alright?”

Nothing would ever be alright again. Yet, seeing Jackson? That wouldn’t be so bad.

Scott had brought Jackson along a few days later. Derek found him refreshingly rude. Later he realized it was probably because he was so starved for Stiles, who never sugarcoated anything. Jackson could never fill the Stiles-shaped hole in his heart and soul, but there was still a warped sort of comfort in his presence.

The week after Jackson’s first visit, Derek finally asked Scott about Stiles. He’d tried to avoid thinking about it, but it still nagged at him like a persistent bed bug.

“When?” he rasped out, voice scratchy from lack of use. Scott seemed to have been waiting for the question, because he understood exactly what he meant.

“Lydia has a theory,” he started hesitantly. “I asked Morrell about it, and she seems to agree that it’s the most plausible explanation.”

He’d drawn a sharp breath, exhaled, before letting the words pour out of him, fast and hot, like lava from a volcano that had been on the verge of erupting for a long while.

“When Stiles - this Stiles, you know from here, was infected with that fly - he, he slashed his own stomach open. We found him like that. It was a wound that any normal human wouldn’t have survived without medical attention. Yet, he was still functional. Only, it wasn’t Stiles, not really. The fly was in charge, using his body like a host.”

Scott had needed a moment before he continued. As if getting the words out physically hurt. They probably did. It hurt to hear. Derek was getting used to pain by now. He could deal.

“Peter helped us get inside his mind. Lydia and I, we went in, trying to get Stiles back. Get him to take control again. We found him sitting on top of the Nemeton.” He laughed mirthlessly. “We didn’t know back then, that he was so connected to it. I guess that kind of explains it - Stiles, the one the Nemeton had chosen at it’s keeper was dying - I guess it was a defense mechanism of sorts. When we came out of his mind, he spewed out these disgusting bandages-”

“Stiles told me about that!” Derek’s eyes widened. “Back when we thought we were dealing with clones. He said he was probably a clone, too. Said he came out of the woodwork.”

He laughed mirthlessly, shaking his head. “Out of the woodwork,” he mumbled, overcome with sadness and pride. “He wasn’t wrong. He did come out of the woodwork - out of the Nemeton. Or through it!”

They sat stunned for a moment after that, just staring at each other. After a while, Derek whispered “He wasn’t sure if he was real or just a replica. It bugged him. Subconsciously, I think he knew there was something wrong.”

Scott nodded. “Yeah. Both Lydia and Morrell seem to think the Nemeton sent another Stiles to us when it sensed ours was dying. For a little while there were two running around, but he was so weak when he first got here. So cold, so disoriented. It took a while before he understood what was going on, where he was. Deaton gave him a sedative. When he woke up he was better, but still a little un-Stiles in a way. Even Isaac, who didn’t really know him all that well, commented on it.”

Scott had grown somber, his face drawn and haggard. Derek could relate.

“I - if I’d known that getting that fly out would be the final nail in our Stiles’ life, I - I never would’ve done it.”

“Then they’d both be dead,” said Derek.

Scott nodded head, but still looked torn. “I know. I just, I can’t help it. It - it freaks me out. I’ve lost Allison -twice. I’m having a hard time with this. I’ve lost my best friend. Actually, I’ve lost him twice, too. I can’t - I can’t take losing anyone else.”

The underlying plea was clear. Scott was a mess, but Derek was even worse. If he kept up his wallowing vigil, Derek would soon be withering away as well. It was an odd sensation, realizing that he was needed beyond Stiles. Odd, but strangely warming, like woolly socks on a chilly night.

“I’m not going anywhere, Scott,” Derek reassured. He wasn’t convinced he could keep the promise. But he’d sure as hell try. Stiles might be gone, but his memory; his presence still lingered in everything.

“I know, you’ve been here for weeks,” said Scott sullenly. Derek rolled his eyes, realizing with a startle that the sensation was unfamiliar and strange. He used to do it twice an hour at least. He’d missed it. He’d missed Scott.

“I meant, I’m not leaving this town. I’m not leaving you. I’ll get better, Scott. I promise.”

The bright smile that spread across Scott’s face was a reward Derek didn’t know he needed. Two days later he returned to the loft, but couldn’t bare to spend any time there. He later found himself on the doorstep of the Stilinski house. The sheriff opened the door wide, gesturing him to enter. He’d been staying there ever since.

 

 

  
***

 

 

“You’re burning the meat, idiot!”

Jackson Whittemore stood hovering by the barbecue, offering mostly useless grilling tips to a steadily more frustrated Danny who looked to be on the verge of ramming the grill fork through his throat. Parrish evidently sensed the danger and sent Jackson inside to help Kira with the salad. Jackson grumbled but complied. Derek smiled behind his beer bottle.

“Parrish is good with him,” commented the Sheriff from the deck chair next to him. Derek nodded. He really was.

“Yeah, he’s a patient man, and yet still doesn’t tolerate bullshit. Jackson needs love and boundaries in equal measures. I’m glad that's working out.”

It had soon become clear that having Jackson stay with the Martins wasn’t a viable permanent solution. Lydia might love Jackson, and the feeling was certainly returned, but they were a volatile combination. For the first months they drew solace and comfort from each other, but it didn’t take long for the cracks to start showing. Before long they were back to their hot and cold routine. Mrs. Martin soon put her foot down, demanding that Jackson find somewhere else to live. To everyone’s surprise Jordan had offered. Lydia had protested, but he’d been adamant, refusing to bow to her demands.

The Sheriff later told Derek, Lydia’s mom had been amused to find her daughter caught off guard for perhaps the first time in her life. Jordan Parrish might seem mild-mannered and a perfect gentleman, but he was no pushover.

“She doesn’t know it yet, but he’s the man for her,” Natalie announced one evening she was over for dinner. She and the Sheriff were back on speaking terms again, slowly inching their way towards at least a friendship. Derek was glad. The sheriff - or John as he insisted he call him, deserved to be happy. It would take time, and the void after Stiles could never be filled. Not completely. Nor did they want to. But they still needed to live.

Stiles wasn’t the only one missed. Malia’s ghost still lingered as well, and surprisingly the one most affected was Kira. She’d surprised them all by demanding to be present when they explained to Malia’s dad what had happened. Strangely, her presence seemed to help him accept what they told him. Malia had shared her supernatural secret unbeknownst to them. She’d also talked warmly of his friends, and lately, Kira in particular. Derek knew she sometimes visited Mr. Tate. It seemed to help them both somehow.

Kira didn’t smile as readily anymore, but slowly, she too was coming out of her shell. Derek suspected she felt bereft in a whole other manner. She hadn’t been there. Hadn’t had the opportunity to say goodbye. He knew from experience how painful that was. But Kira was strong. Stronger than they gave her credit for.

The younger pack members had been a rock throughout it all. Liam, Mason and Hayden in particular. Derek looked at them fondly, huddled together on the other end of the deck, playing a loud game of cards. Mason’s boyfriend Corey was starting to become a regular sight as well. Derek liked him and hoped he’d stick around.

 

 

Later, after eating an impossible amount of food, they were all too food drunk to do anything but lie in companionable silence. Nearing midnight, the sheriff finally rose gingerly.

“Late shift?” asked Derek softly. John nodded.

“Yes. They can all stay if they want. You know where the blankets and pillows are. Just make yourself comfortable, okay.”

Derek nodded. A while later, after the sheriff was gone and most of the others were snoring softly, he too got up and headed for the door.

“You going out there?”

Derek startled at Scott’s voice. He turned to see red eyes flashing in the dimming evening light. He shrugged in answer. He might have stopped his constant vigil by the Nemeton, but he would never stop visiting. In fact, he went there every night. It was the closet thing he came to a tombstone. The Stiles he was grieving wasn’t technically dead, but their relationship was. Derek still needed to mourn and connect to that.

“Yeah,” he whispered back. “I’ll be back later.”

“Say hello for me.”

Coming from anyone else Derek might find it stupid and silly. But Scott really meant it and still found some solace out there as well. The sheriff hadn’t been back as far as Derek knew. Not since the day he finally had enough. Derek knew he went into Stiles’ room every night and spent a while there, just sitting. Remembering. Grieving. Derek for his part could not bare to enter it. The memories there too raw and real.

“I will,” he whispered into the night.

 

*

 

  
It still blew him away how such an innocent looking piece of wood could be the source of so much trouble. The Nemeton in itself was never either good or bad. It just had a power, a spark that drew people in. And people, no matter if they had supernatural abilities or not, could be tempted. Some sadly to the point of corruption and greed.

Now its power was long gone. Even Derek could feel that. A sort of silence and tranquility had descended over the Preserve after the day Stiles closed it. Morrell said the telluric currents had dried up completely. Derek didn’t know or care. He still felt as if Stiles was here somehow. Every once in a while he thought he could almost hear him. His trilling laugh like an echo among the trees. Other times, a faint scent would distract him, and send him chasing in circles for hours. It never led to anything, and Derek knew it was just his mind playing tricks. Wishful thinking. Miracles didn’t happen. Certainly not here in Beacon Hills, and never to him.

Derek approached the Nemeton like he usually did, with reverence and a sad smile. He jumped easily atop it, then slowly lowered down until he sat sprawled across it. For a moment it felt as if a small current stung his palm. Derek wrenched his hand away with a jolt, examining it in surprise. Tentatively he put it down again, but nothing happened.

“Probably just a twig or something,” he mumbled, shaking it off. “Scott says hello by the way,” he murmured into the twilight. “He’s doing so much better. He got a tutor to help him catch up with schoolwork and he’s back in Advanced Biology, the dream of becoming a vet restored.” Derek snickered slightly. “I think he’s in love again, which could mean trouble if previous relationships are anything to go by. Not sure who it is yet, but when I came over the other night he ended a Skype call rather abruptly and looked flushed and embarrassed. I only caught bits of the conversation but it was something about scarves, I think. Might be nothing though. Auch! Son of a bitch!”

There it was again! That had definitely been a jolt of electricity. It singed like crazy. Derek shook his hand, still feeling the aftershocks. What the fuck was going on?

“Please don’t tell me this fucking thing has been reactivated! Four lousy months’ reprieve! That way too little.”

Derek was still muttering angrily to himself and about to dial Morrell, when a voice scared him half to death.

“Sorry about that, wolfy. It’ll die down in a few minutes. No need to call in the squad.”

Derek’s heart froze, his pulse flat-lined. Then it reactivated with a jolt that had nothing to do with electricity and everything to do with pure and unfiltered love. He whirled around, not even the least bit concerned about the fact that he was slack-jawed, gaping, and generally looked like a huge fool. The sight that greeted him was worth a lifetime of mocking.

“Hi,” said Stiles, performing a silly little hand gesture that Derek had never thought he’d be so happy to see again.

“I’m dreaming,” he mumbled, stabbing a claw into his palm to prove it. He yelped in pain and stared from Stiles to his bloody hand and back again in disbelief. Stiles tutted, a fond smile gracing his lips.

“What did you do that for, silly?”

He strode forward, shaking his head, then stopped when Derek didn’t show any inclination to move.

“Eh, something the matter?” Stiles glanced around. “Where’s everyone else? They leave already?”

“Were they supposed to be here?”

Derek’s voice came out squeaky and odd. Stiles was scratching his head, twirling around in circles.

“Man, I think we miscalculated a bit. I meant to resurface just moments after I left.”

He scrunched his nose, grit his teeth and hunched his shoulders in that manner he tended to when he’d somehow, inadvertently, screwed up.

“A fuck. Too much dandelion root, I suppose. How long have I been gone?”

Derek didn’t answer the question. Just continued to drink in the sight before him, the realization slowly sinking in that this wasn’t a mirage. This was real!

The sound that escaped him as he pounced on Stiles was closer to his wolf than human side, but it was genuine, heartfelt and so deliriously happy, everything just came out in one fell swoop. They crashed to the mossy floor in a tangle of arms, legs and most importantly, lips. Derek kissed him hungrily, like a man starved. He was insatiable. Stiles didn’t seem to mind one iota and gave as good as he got. Derek lost track of time, space and everything between. There was only Stiles. Nothing else mattered.

It wasn’t until that special time between night and dawn when everything is quiet and peaceful, the sky pink with the promise of a new day, that they finally spoke again. By then Derek was sufficiently reassured that Stiles was real, every mole in the same place, his scent unchanged.

“How long?” Stiles’ words ghosted his ears, causing delicious shivers.

“Almost five months.”

Stiles didn’t answer at first. When he did, all he said was “shit.” It summed it up nicely.

“How?”

Derek was playing with Stiles’ fingers, examining them closely, one by one, digit to digit, intertwining them with his own, afraid that if he let them go, he’d slip through the cracks and disappear.

“How is it possible for you to be back? Won’t it make the worlds collide? And how do you even remember? I thought you’d revert back to other you when you crossed over.”

Stiles didn’t answer straight away, as if he was mentally sorting through it, choosing where to start and how to best approach it. In the end, he did it Stiles style - jumbled and in a long ramble.

“Honestly? I don’t know why, but once I crossed over my memories of this place never faded. I gradually got the old memories back, which was very trippy. I could remember both sets of realties crystal clear. I still do,” he admitted with a sheepish smile. “I kept expecting my recollection of this place - and you, to one day simply slip away. I was quite the puzzle to - well, everyone. But Deaton, especially.”

He chuckled softly. “Most things are just the same as here, but some details are shockingly different. Like you and me, we don’t even know each other. Not really. Apparently, I dated Cora at one point, and you hated me. You’re engaged to Paige and very happy. Your mom is head of every committee and fundraiser in town. Laura has long since taken over as alpha and is kick-ass, fierce, and fair as I understand it.”

“What about my dad?” Stiles squeezed his fingers reassuringly.

“He passed away a few years ago. He was human. I think it was some sort of aneurysm.”

It was weird and illogical, but Derek still felt sad to hear it, even if it technically was never his father.

“Your mom is dating Lydia’s father.” Stiles shook his head. “The less said about that, the better. Peter and Malia have settled in nicely, by the way. Malia quickly forgot all about this place. It took a bit longer with Peter, I think. Malia is back with her adoptive family. She still sees Peter every full moon.”

“That’s nice.”

Derek didn’t know what else to say. Stiles sighed.

“Yeah, I guess. I mean, I’m very happy for her. Malia never really settled here, and over there she fits in like a glove, both at school and with her family. It’s just - we’re not friends in that reality. I came back and felt incredibly lonely. No you. No Malia. Strangely enough, no Scott either,” he added in a small voice. “He lives with his dad in San Fransisco. The same with the Argents. They live out of state, too.”

“Whoa, I can see how that was trippy for you.”

Stiles shook his head, frowning.

“You have no idea. My best friend is Jackson Whittemore!”

“Well, Jackson’s back in the pack in this reality too, so there’s no escaping him.”

Stiles groaned. “Wonderful. Let me guess - he and Lydia are back at it?”

“They were. Not sure at this precise moment. They’re not exactly stable.”

“Oh joy, some things never change I guess. Here at least.”

They didn’t say anything for a while. The preserve was slowly waking up around them, which meant they soon had to return to town and face the others.

“You still haven’t told me why you came back. I - they explained why you had to go - that the Nemeton basically pulled you through when the fly-thing… you know.”

“Killed me. Other me. This me.” Stiles rolled his eyes. “You know what I mean.”

“Yeah.”

“I dunno. I guess I just didn’t fit there anymore. Even if I technically belonged there, it still felt - wrong. Of course, it didn’t help that I couldn’t let go of my memories of this place. I just couldn’t settle. People were freaked out by me. I’d talk to people I’d known here, who didn’t know me there. I’d get stuff mixed up. I just - I made everyone uncomfortable. Even my parents.”

“Your mom -” Derek trailed off. Stiles took a deep breath.

“Yeah. Mom. That was - it was good. Having her again. She wasn’t the same either, but not as different as most. Mom and dad where the one thing I liked about it. Dad was pretty much the same as here. Very much clueless about all the supernatural stuff, but we soon had him updated. He took it better than he did here, so there’s that.”

Stiles got momentarily distracted by a butterfly that landed atop the Nemeton. Or perhaps he just used the opportunity to reflect on what to say. Derek didn’t mind. He could wait forever and then some, if it meant having Stiles here again. Permanently. He hadn’t dared ask that question yet. If this was a visit or a permanent relocation. After a few minutes of uncharacteristic silence, Stiles started talking again.

“Deaton called me an anomaly. In my opinion he was stranger than me - I swear to god, the guy had hair crazier than Doc Brown from the Back To The Future movies. He was about as eccentric, too. He played the accordion! Badly, I might add. He told the worst dad jokes in the world. He was also the one who suggested perhaps I should go back. In fact, he sort of strongly urged me to do so, saying that he suspected I’d forged such a strong bond here, I was actually doing more harm than good staying there.”

“Strong bond? I thought the Nemeton was basically dead now?”

Derek felt confused. Had they done all that? Sent Malia away for nothing?

“Not a strong bond to the tree, silly.” Stiles flicked his nose playfully. “A strong bond to you first and foremost. But I guess to everyone here. In the other worldI have a wide circle of friends but none of them would die for him. I wouldn’t die for them either. For you guys - “ Stiles shrugged self-deprecatingly. “For you I’ll cross universes and condemn myself to never seeing you again if it means you’ll be safe. So yeah - strong bonds.”

“Does that mean you're here to stay?”

Every nerve-ending in Derek’s body was singing with joy. Happiness streaming through him in ways he’d never felt before.

“Yep, basically. Unless you’d rather get rid of me.”

"No! Are you crazy? I'm never letting you out of my sight again!"

"Maybe taking it a bit far, but okay," said Stiles, grinning widely. 

"What about your parents? Over there. Won't they miss you? How did you explain that?"

Stiles' face fell, his eyes suddenly sad. "Yeah, that," he said softly. "That was - well, I didn't exactly tell them."

Derek's eyes bugged, protests forming, but Stiles beat him to it.

"How could I explain that to them? Mom doesn't remember a thing about her visit here. Dad barely accepts the idea of lupine supernaturals. When Deaton suggested I go back, I refused at first. Not because I didn't want to," he added hastily, squeezing Derek's hand firmly. "I did. Desperately! But because I felt I couldn't do that to them. You know, just disappear. Deaton was adamant though. Seemed to believe I was in the process of becoming what the Nemeton was back here - you know something creatures gravitated towards, and that I in time could cause similar portals and cracks. So, he came up with the idea of wiping their memories of me. They won't miss me, Derek. They don't remember me."

They sat in silence for a while. Derek could sense the sadness this brought Stiles, how difficult of a choice that had been. Once again he marveled at the strength and courage thrumming through his wonderful, self-sacrificing boyfriend. He vowed there and then, to help Stiles mourn this loss, to not sweep it under the rug and ignore it. 

"I'm so sorry," he whispered, squeezing Stiles' hand. Stiles smiled sadly, rubbing his eyes jerkily to hide the tears welling. 

"It's for the best," he mumbled in a shaky voice. "I just - I didn't want them to be alone, you know. They're amazing, warm people with so much love to give. I - I made Deaton promise me to alert my dad to the situation at home for Isaac. His dad's an abusive asshole across universes it seems," Stiles spat through gritted teeth. "I'm hoping they'll take him in, give him a home."

For a little while the only sound was that of birds chirping overhead. The air was a strange mix of sorrow and joy. Yet it wasn't as painful and uncomfortable as it sounded. Derek was startled to realize that this is what life felt like. Happiness wasn't this all or nothing state - it was mixed with a myriad of other emotions, some directly conflicting. The most important part was the knowledge that happiness - love - was dominant.

"So, did you miss me at all?"

Derek startled. Stiles nudged him, grinning lopsidedly. He could still see the shadows of sadness in his eyes, but allowed for him to change the subject. They had time to talk about the other stuff later. Together they would handle it. 

Derek answered the question by kissing him again. Then he threw his head back and howled with happiness, the sound of his voice echoing throughout the forest. He felt like running, leaping, wagging his tail!

Wait - what? _Tail_?

“Holy shit!”

Stiles’ voice suddenly sounded different. Like Derek was hearing it through a new filter. The world around him exploded in colors, sounds and scents. 

“Whoa, dude! You’re - you’re beautiful.”

Derek yapped - shit! He looked down and saw fur-covered paws trampling the ground in excitement. Stiles’ hearty laugh was like nectar from the gods.

“You did it! Shit! Whoa, full shift. That’s - god, I love you!”

Stiles threw his arms around his neck, ruffled his fur and muttered sweet nothings only besotted dog-owners could get away with. Derek didn’t care. Stiles could tell all the bad dog-jokes he wanted as long as he stayed.

Click.

Derek whipped his head around, growling. Stiles was holding up Derek’s phone, snapping pictures furiously.

“Yeah, hold that pose. Very menacing. Big bad wolf of Beacon Hills. I’m sending this to all your snapchat contacts.”

Stiles was grinning widely, holding his phone high enough that Derek’s snout couldn’t reach it. “Well, almost everyone. Maybe not Coach Finstock. Why is he even in your contacts? I’ve clearly been gone too long.”

Derek leapt up, placing his paws on Stiles’ chest bringing them down in a lump beside the Nemeton. He didn’t let go of the phone, though and cackled manically when the snap was sent.

“God, you’re heavy,” he panted, swatting at Derek’s jaw. Stiles scrambled awkwardly into a sitting position, Derek not once breaking contact with his body, half scared he’d disappear into thin air.

“Come here you.” Stiles pulled gently on Derek’s fur, squashing their faces together. “Growl prettily for the camera, we’re taking the most earth-shattering selfie ever.”

It really was. Derek’s phone exploded in messages, beeps and calls just seconds after Stiles hit send. They ignored them all, curled together, eyes only for each other. After a little while Derek felt the change wash over him again and he sighed and savored the feel of his skin against Stiles’.

“Hey, there,” said Stiles with a leer.

“Hey,” said Derek placing a soft kiss on his jaw. Stiles chuckled.

“Wasn’t talking to you,” he said playfully, his hand inching down towards a part of Derek exceedingly exited to have Stiles back in this world.

“Stiles -” he whined, a little bit embarrassed, but mostly just filled with love and lust.

“Shut up and kiss me,” grinned Stiles, eyebrows waggling.

It was the cheesiest line in every reality in existence, but Derek didn’t care. Instead, he complied, wholeheartedly and eagerly. Stiles’ clothes were soon discarded, the clearing filled with pants, groans and heady moans.

 

*

 

“Oh for fuck’s sake! My eyes!”

They whipped around at the sound of the Sheriff’s pained outburst and found him, along with the rest of the people Derek had left behind at the barbecue, staring at them in awe, and in Lydia’s case clear fascination.

“Surprise!” said Stiles spreading his arms widely showing well - _everything_.

“STILES!”

“Oops, sorry.”

“I’m not,” muttered Lydia appreciatively.

“I need bleach,” moaned the Sheriff, sinking bonelessly to the ground, mouth agape. Scott patted him awkwardly on the shoulder, all the while grinning widely.

“You shouldn’t have sent that snap,” mumbled Derek.

“Don’t worry babe, I’ll get you off later,” said Stiles jauntily, already getting to his feet in all his glory.

“Too much information!” wailed his dad. “Although, does that mean you’re back. To stay?”

“Yep, I’m home,” said Stiles.

The preserve echoed in cries of relief, welcome-backs, tears, and as soon as Stiles was clothed, hugs. Derek was content to stay on the outskirts, watching his friends, his pack mates, welcome Stiles back. Stiles wasn’t really from this place, but that didn’t matter. Just like this ragtag gang of misfits wasn’t really his family. Derek loved them still, unconditionally and fully. He’d finally discovered how to be happy, how to love and how to forgive and accept himself. All thanks to a buzz-cut and gangly kid in the preserve that somehow had morphed into Derek’s constant. A constant not even time, space and worlds unfolding could keep away.

The emotions took over again, and for once Derek let them run free, wash over him without restraint. Four paws hit the ground, he let his head back, and howled.

 

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, that's basically it. Thank you so much for sticking with it til the end. I hope it wasn't too disappointing. As always, don't be afraid to tell me what you think, the good, the bad, and the ugly. I suspect this had a somewhat different resolution than most expected, and I'm honestly very sad to sort of "kill off" a Stiles. It wasn't my original intention, but the pieces just fit so well together, I couldn't ignore it. Everything can't be fluff, after all... 
> 
> Until next time ♥


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